
Gass VN 1-2 - 9 1 
Book JL£i 



Standard Dialogues 



IL 

DESIGNED FOR /^gj Q 

School and Parlor Entcrtamments^ Temperance Meet- 
ingfs, Literary Societies, etc. 




Compiled by 

REV. ALEXANDER CLARK, A. M. 



Philadelphia . 

The Penn Publishing Company 
J898 






a\ 



oi'do 



Copyright 1898 by The Penn Publishing Company 




rWOoOricoRtCtlVED. 



2no copy 
1898. 



CONTENTS 



FAGS 

Mrs. Smith's, Boarder H. E. McBride 7 

La Teune Malade H. C. Hunt 14 

Night and Morning Mrs. L. E. V. Boyd ... 15 

Scandal on the Brain Blanche B. Beebe .... 17 

The Common Bond R. C. Hunt 23 

Phrenology D. L. Demorest 24 

Correct Habits W. C. Munson 27 

The Secret Cousin Fannie 37 

The Two Friends America Atheson .... 39 

Killed with Kindness Sophie May 41 

The Sisters H. C. Hunt 48 

Management ; or, the Folly of 

Passion Mrs. L. E. V. Boyd ... 50 

Columbus at the Court of Spain Mrs. L. E, V. Boyd ... 54 

The Silver Dollar ..HE. McBride 65 

Oil on the Brain S. A. McKeever 68 

Going to be an Orator ..... Kate E. Forbes 72 

Quackery ..../. TF. Bonjield 75 

Two Faults Alice A. Coale 77 

Grumbling oyer Lessons .... Hattie Herbert 80 

Behind the Scenes Mrs. M. L. Rayne ... 84 

The Test HE. McBride 87 

Thanksgiving V HE. McBride 92 

Matrimonial Advertisement . . Clara Augusta 96 

Changing Servants Milotus J. Wine 102 

The Eehearsal H. E. McBride 106 

Deaf Uncle Zed Ill 

Egyptian Debate Alf. Burnett 123 

Widow Muggins— Her Opinions . /. W. Bonjield 128 

Marrying for Money H. E. McBride 133 

The Conflict Mary E. Topping .... 138 

5 



6 CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Life :— A School Scene K S. Trafton ..... 143 

Ben, the Orphan Boy . , . . o H. E, McBride 145 

Convict's Soliloquy; or, the 

Night before Execution o . . E. H. Trafton 160 

John Jones's Fortune . . . c . H. E. McBride 153 

In Want of a Servant Clara Augusta . . . » . 157 

How they Kept a Secret .... Clara Augusta .... 164 

Stealing Apples J. D. Vinton ...... 171 

Playing Fourth op July . . . . M. F. Burlingame . . .174 

Good for Evil Capt. Howard 179 

Not so Easy o . Eliza Doolittle 184 

What I Like Eliza Doolittle ..... 184 

Fred's First Speech ...... Eliza Doolittle 186 

I AVant to be a Soldier ..../. Ward Childs =, ... 186 

Blue A. B. Rutledge 187 

Walter's First Speech Eliza Doolittle 188 

Examination Day Eliza Doolittle .... 189 

Close op School Anna Morgan 190 

Exhibition Day Eliza Doolittle 191 

Charlie's Speech Eliza Doolittle 191 

Four Year Old Eliza Doolittle 192 

Willie's Speech Eliza Doolittle 192 

An Address op Welcome . . . .31.0. Kennedy 193 

Old Eye Makes a Speech 194 

For a Tiny Girl o . o 195 

First Speech in Public o . . . . 195 

Introductory Address 196 

Very Little Ones are We 196 

Lines for an Exhibition 196 

When I am a Man Emily Huntington ^filler 197 

Modern Chivalry M. D. S. 197 

A Little Boy's Speech 199 

Declamation by a Little Tot . . Emily Huntington Miller 199 

Grandma's Advice to the Girls 200 

The Spoiled Face W. 0. C. 200 

Naming the Baby Marian Douglas .... 201 

Johnny's Opinion of Grand- 
mothers 201 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 



MRS. SMITH'S BOARDER. 

CHARACTERS. 
George Washington Wiggins. Mrs. Jane Sm.th. 



Scene. — A room in Mrs. Smithes boarding-house. 
George Washington Wiggins discovered. 
Wiggins. — Well, I'm getting considerably in debt, 
and something must be done to raise the wind. Here's 
my new coat not paid for, and my pantaloons are get- 
ting somewhat seedy. I got a hole knocked in my hat 
t'other day, and I ought to have a new one ; but, really, 
I can't see how I'm going to raise the money to pur- 
chase the desired article. Beside this, Mrs. Smith is 
continually growling about her board bill ; and, really,. 
that is a little bill I ought to settle. I certainly would 
fork over if I had the tin, but where's the tin to come 
from? That's the question. I suppose the bill will 
amount to some forty or fifty dollars b}^ this time, and 
if I don't square up, I may expect to be required to 
travel pretty shortl}^, and leave " my bed and board," 
as the advertisements say. Something must be done, 
that's certain ! I guess I'll carry my watch to a pawn- 
broker's, and try to raise a little money for present 
purposes. [_Knock at the door.^ Come in. [Enter Mrs. 
Smith.'] Oh, how do you do, Mrs. Smith ? Really, I 
am delighted to see you. Here, take this chair. Sit 
down, sit down ; never mind me, I can stand. [_3Irs. 
Smith sits.'] It gives me great pleasure, Mrs. Smith, to 
receive a friendly call from you. How is your rheumat- 
ism this morning ? 

7 



8 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

Mrs. Smith. — Oh, somewhat better. But, Mr. Wig- 
gins, I have brought in your bill. I have no doubt you 
are prepared to liquidate it this morning? 

Wiggins. — Let me see it if you please, Mrs. Smith. 
[Takes bill and reads.'] George Washington Wiggins, 
to Mrs. Jane Smith, Dr. To ten weeks board, at four 
dollars and fifty cents, forty-five dollars. 

Mrs. Smith. — All right, is it ? 

Wiggins. — Oh, yes, it's all right, I guess ; but really, 
Mrs. Smith, I am not prepared to settle up this morning. 

Mrs. Smith. — Not prepared ! Mr. Wiggins, didn't 
you say you would most certainly settle on Saturday 
morning, and isn't this Saturday morning ? 

Wiggins. — Yes, Mrs. Smith, I must confess that this 
is Saturday morning, but this Saturday morning like 
last Saturday morning, finds me almost strapped, if J 
may be allowed to use that not very nice but very ex- 
pressive word. If you will bear with me a few days 
longer, my dear Mrs. Smith, I think I will be enabled 
to square up. 

Mrs. Smith. — A few days longer ! That's what you 
said last week and the week before. But I want you to 
understand that I will not wait a few days longer. A 
few days longer, indeed ! That's exactly what you said 
one month ago, and what you have said every time since 
when I asked you to settle up. I tell you, Mr. Wiggins, 
I can't be expected to board people for nothing. It 
tak«>s money to sf t my table and hire my cook ; it takes 
money to buy coal and oil and the thousands of other 
things necessary for keeping a boarding-house. 

Wiggins. — That's very true, Mrs. Smith ; ver}^ true. 
I expect some money soon, and if you will give me one 
vreek more, I'll endeavor to settle in that time. 

Mrs. Smith. — Not another day, Mr. Wiggins! But 
J have a proposition to offer, which, perhaps, will 
straighten matters. 

Wiggins. — Let us hear the proposition. Any thing 
to straighten matters will be listened to attentively by 
me. 

Mrs Smith. — Well, the off'er I have to make, will en- 
tirely clear you of your indebtedness to me if you accept 
it. 

Wiggins. — Good, kind, indulgent Mrs. Smith I What 



1 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 9 

an amiable woman you are I Let us have the offer. 
Make all possible haste and let us hear it. I would be 
a hardened wretch, indeed, to decline. 

Mrs. Smith. — Well, Mr. Wiggins, the proposition is 
that you consent to be my husband. 

Wiggins [aside']. — Did mortal ever I What's the 
world coming to ? 

Mas. Smith. — I will confess, Mr. Wiggins, there is no 
great and undying love for you in my heart, such as 
young persons have, or imagine they have, when they 
think of entering the state of matrimony. I am not the 
least bit sentimental. The days of sentimentalism with 
me have passed away ; but I have come to the conclu- 
sion that I ought to have a husband. I find that it is 
very hard to oversee every thing about the house, and 
I know a man who understood his business would con- 
siderably lessen my labors ; and, beside this, if I was 
married again, I would feel more contented and happy 
than I have felt since my dear Smith left me. Now, if 
you accept the offer, I will forgive 3^ou your debt and 
will give you your boarding free. You shall also have an 
allcwance large enough to keep you in clothes and such 
nick-nacks as this [pointing to his meerschaum']. But 
remember, I will expect you to superintend the market- 
ing, do the carving, and take whatever labor off my 
hands I may wish. 

Wiggins [aside]. — They say Mr. Smith led a very 
hen-pecked sort of a life, and I'm sure I'm not going to 
step into his shoes. [To Mrs. Smith.] Really — I — I — 
Mrs. Smith, I thank you for your flattering offer, but it 
is very unexpected — very. To tell the truth, Mrs 
Smith, it came like a clap of thunder from a clear sky. 
I would, therefore, like to have a few days to consider 
the matter. You know it is of the utmost importance 
that we consider well before we take a step thut can 
never be retraced. I hope you will give me a few days 
to think the matter over, before I give my answer. 

Mrs. Smith. — And while 3^ou were thinking, you would 
be living at my expense. Not a day will 1 give you, 
Mr. Wiggins. Let me have your answer now, fair and 



10 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

square. | If you reject the offer, I will send you to jail 
for debt inside of two hours. 

Wiggins ^aside']. — Here's a fix! I'm cornered, and 
there seems to be no getting out. What an old dragon 
she is to think of sending me to jail, simply because I 
don't happen to have a little bit of filthy lucre about 
me. [ To Mrs. Smith.'] Well, Mrs. Smith, I have thought 
the matter over, and have concluded to accept your very 
flattering off'er. 

Mrs. Smith. — All right, Mr. Wiggins. I thought 
you would look at the matter in a proper light, and act 
as a sensible man. 

Wiggins. — But Mrs. Smith, you will not require the 
sacrifice — oh — ah — I beg pardon. You will not wish to 
make me the happy man for five or six months yet, will 
you? 

Mrs. Smith. — Five or six months ! Why, Mr. Wig- 
gins, I need you now ! The marketing and all the 
oiher work is laborious, and I have been thinking for 
some time past, of hiring a man to attend to the things 
about the house. No, Mr. Wiggins, the matter can not 
be deferred so long. You may be prepared for tho 
event in tw^o weeks from next Tuesday. 

Wiggins. — Two weeks from next Tuesday Aside. ^ 
Oh, dear I [To Jirs. Smith.] Why, Mrs. Smith, that 
will not give 3^ou time to get the new dresses, etc. 

Mrs. Smith. — New dresses, pooh ! I aint going to 
bother myself about new dresses. I've got an jld black 
silk, whi^h, when it is fixed up a little, will look charm- 
ingly. But I must be down stairs again. Make your- 
self comfortable here, Mr. Wiggins, and remember the 
da}' of our wedding is two weeks from next Tuesday 
\_Exit Mrs. Smith.] 

Wiggins. — Two weeks from next Tuesday ! Isn't it 
awful to think of it ? Most men feel happy when the 
wedding-day is so near. I don't ! I'm a miserable dog. 
Now if it was only Celesta Ann Jones I was going tc 
be tied to in two weeks, I could bear it. In fact, I be- 
lieve I could place my hand on my heart and say I was 
the happiest fellow in creation. Can't do that now 
though I I'm a sacrificed man if I marry Mrs. Smith. 
But [with a sudden determination] I loont marry her! 



STANDAKD DIALOGUES H 

How could I, when yisions of hen-pecked husbands are 
continually floating before my eyes ? How could I so 
far forget myself, as to leave my darling Celesta Ann 
and jump into the sea of squalls with Mrs. Smith ? 
Can't do it — I wont do it ! But how am I going to help 
rflyself? That's the rub. Can't go to jail! Celesta 
Ann would never look at me again if I did ; and, be- 
sides this, I'm too well raised to live on bread and 
water. I can't run away — it would be of no use. I 
would be nabbed before two da3^s I I know Mrs. Smith's 
vindictive disposition well. She wouldn't allow me to 
escape — she would follow me to the ends of the earth. 
\^After a pause.'] I have it ! I'll act insane — 111 be 
overjoyed with the bargain — so much so, that reason 
will take her flight. Ha, ha ! aint I a lucky dog ? Now 
to commence. \_Takes off his coal and turns it ; after 
which he commences to shout, and kick the tables and chairs 
around.] Hello! hello! Mrs. Smith — Smith— Smith — • 
Mrs. Smith ! Fire, tire, thieves, fire, murder, fire, fire, 
murder! Mrs. Smith — Smith — Smith — Mrs. Smith- 
come quick ! 

Mrs. Smith [^eyitei-ing']. — Wh}^, Mr. Wiggins, what's 
the matter? You frightened me. Where's the fire? 
Where's the thieves ? 

* Wiggins. — George Washington Wiggins, the Presi- 
dent of the United States, speaks to you. Be very quiet. 
I have arrayed myself in a new coat — coat cost twenty- 
two dollars — and I am about to deliver my inaugural 
[^Stands on a chair.] But, Mrs. Wiggins, that is to say 
Mrs. Smith, as used to be, I am a happ}?" man. I am 
about to enter the state sometimes denominated matri* 
mony. It becomes me then, as the Emperor of France, 
to say that I think 

Mrs. Smith. — Ileally, the man's demented. Mr. Wig- 
gins ! Mr. Wiggins ! what is the matter ? Do come 
down stairs and have a cup of tea ; it will do 3'ou good. 
[Aside.] His mind isn't ver^^ strong when it's so easily 
upset. [To Mr. Wiggins.] Come, Mr. Wiggins, you 
will ruin thf furniture. Do come down and have a cup 
of tea. 

WiGGiN?. — Come down ! 'No, indeed ; not I ! •' To 
this point T'll stand," as Shakspeare says. I'm a mar- 



12 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

ried man remand I'm not going to be coaxed and ruled 
by womer. I'll show the world that I'm not a hen-pecked 
husband, such as the world believes me. I'll show the 
world that I'm no John Smith. I'll show the world, 
that when I say, " Mrs. Smith, go to market !" Mrs. 
Smith will go instantly. [^Becomes calmer.'] Mrs. Smith, 
I am f}lightl3^ nervous to-day. To tell the truth, I am so 
completely overjo3^ed at the prospect of becoming your 
husband, that it has caused reason to totter on her 
throne. Take care, Mrs. Smith, I feel it coming on 
again. Ladies and gentlemen, I appear before you this 
evpning to debate the question, " Should woman have 
equal rights with man ?" and I find myself altogether 
unprepared to do the subject justice. [Dances round 
the room.'] Tol de dol de dol de do, tol de rol de dol 
de da. Mrs. Smith, will 3^ou honor me with j^our hand 
in the next dance ? I think it was time we were en- 
deavoring to thread the mazes of the graceful cotillion. 
Come on, Mrs. V/iggins — as is to be — come on, fair com- 
panion of my future life. 

Mrs. Smith [aside]. — The man is completely insane. 
[To Wiggins.] Do leave the house, Mr. Wiggins; 3^ou 
will alarm the whole neighborhood. 

Wiggins. — Leave the house, Mrs. Smith ! What do 
you mean ? Have you not consented to be m^- wife, and 
are we not to be married to-morrow? 

Mrs. Smith. — No, no, no ! I have no notion whatever 
of marrying you. Marr\^ a crazy man ? Never 1 Do 
be kind enough to leave the house, and I'll forgive you 
the debt. 

Wiggins. — Mrs. Smith, I couldn't think of it! Would 
you be so cruel as to wreck my happiness in this manner ? 
Didn't you promise to be my wife, and didn't you en- 
gage me to do the marketing? 

Mrs. Smith. — Yes, but I have changed my mind, and 
will remain single for a while. Come, hurr^^ out of the 
house and I'll say no more about the board bill. 

Wiggins. — Thanks, thanks, Mrs. Smith; that board 
bill has weighed heavil^^ on my mind for some time past. 
I will go, Mrs. Smith — and believe me, I part from you 



I 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 13 

»vith feelings of sincere regret. \^Pret8^ds to weep.] I 
will send a boy for my baggage, and wilt'conie and foot 
the bill when my head gets a little more settled, and 
after I have succeeded in getting into some kind of 
business. But, Mrs. Smith, let us have a hop before 
I leave — come. 

Mrs. Smith [aside]. — This fit is coming on him again, 
and he may become dangerous. Mr, Wiggins, do leave 
the house. 

Wiggins. — I'm going, madam ; I'm going. Tol de 
lol de lol de la. [^Dances round the room — and exit.] 

Mrs. Smith. — Well, it's lucky I've got him started. 
I'm glad I found him out as soon as I did. It would 
have been awful to have been tied for life to a crazy man. 
I've lost his board bill, but that's nothing in comparison 
with the trouble I would have endured had I married 
him. 

Wiggins [putting his head in the door]. — Never mind 
the board bill, Mrs. Wiggins. I'll make that all right 
some day. 

Mrs. Smith. — Well, well ; all right. But hurry off, 
Mr. Wiggins, or j'^ou may take another spell. 

Wiggins. — No danger of that, Mrs. Smith ; but Vm 
cil. Good-by. [^xit Wiggins.] 

[Curtain fdlh.] 



14 STANDARD DIALOGUES 



LA TEUNE MALADE. 

[The daughter's part in this little colloquy, is from the 
French of Andre Chenier. It is intended for peasant costumes 
of Normandy. The mother seated beside the chair of her sick 
daughter, is occupied in making lace.] 



Scene. — Enter Julie, a child of ten. 

Julie. — Good-evening, Marie ! 
Marie. — Welcome, little coz. ! 

Mother. — Welcome, sweet child ! you come in a happy 
hour ! 

Julie. — I've brought some flowers for Marie, auntie, 
dea.r. \_Julie fastens a spray of lily of the valley to 
Mp^rie^s cap, and goes on to say'] : " Sweets to the sweet," 
" Herself the fairest flower." 

\_The little cousin here courtesies and trips away. 
Marie looks at the foivers, holds up a white rose 
and begins to speak.'] 
Marie. — 
See, mamma ! See this rose of stainless snow I 
Like this my cheek is chill and marble white : 
Thus droop my languid eyes, while my young brow 
From heaven's fair sunshine turns, and prays for night * 
Because I feel the gall of vain desire, 
Well o'er my sick heart, like a veil of fire : 
Fainting and exiled here my footsteps rove ; 
God keep thee, mother ! we shall meet above ! 

Mother. — 

Nay, darling ! Lay these gloomy thoughts aside I 
In May, our Greta comes, a blooming bride : 
Look forward love to joyous festal hour, 
When wearing wreaths of freshly-knotted flowers, 
With gleam of gold amidst thine auburn curls, 
Thou'lt walk a bridesmaid 'midst our loveliest girls. 

Marie. — 

These freshly-knotted flowers, this bracelet fair 
I clasped so proudly, the gay masque, the ball. 
Where whispered voices praised my step and air ^ 
They charm no longer ; smiles seem mockery all 
My spirit trembtes with the leaf that leaps 
Down where the still lake, lapped in silence, sleeps j 
My spirit flutters with the ascending dove : 
Adiriu, sweet mamma ! I am thine above I 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 15 

Mother. — 

Mine ever ! wliom to this fair home and me, 

To be our joy and pride, the Master gave ! 

I can not yield her from these arms of love. 

To the darlv bosom of the gloomy grave ! 

Thou must not go, my darling ! young and bright 

With all youth's grace and charm, tliou must not die : 

No heart is lonely in your worlds of light, 

And Heaven hath not such need of thee as I ! 



NIGHT AND MORNING. 

[Let Night be personated by a dark-eyed, dark-haired girl 
dressed in black, wearing a crown of crescent and stars of silver, 
and a vail also spangled with stars. 

Let Morning be represented by a blue-eyed girl with blonde 
or golden hair, wearing a white dress with a sash of white and 
blue, with a necklace and bracelet of white beads and a garland 
of opening buds.] 

Night. — Canopied with shadows, and attended by 
the fair moon and gentle stars, I come to earth, bringing 
dew for the flowers and rest for the weary. 

I am not silent, and my voices, though still and small, 
are doubly powerful. 

I have sheltered all the young birds in their nests, 
and childhood, forgetful of its mirth, has sunk into soft 
slumbers. The daylight toil is ended, and I have brought 
the father home to his loved ones. 

Beautiful, holy is my reign. A thousand ages gone 
men looked upon and loved my starlit countenance. 

On the far hills of Judea I dispensed visions of glory 
to watching shepherds and rapt prophets. 

How was I beloved by the parents of mankind when 
in the garden of Eden they slept in the blooming bowers 
of innocence! Then the stars sang together for joy, and 
the moon gleamed silvery soft on rock and tree, stream 
and fountain, and the fair, sweet face of Eve looked up- 
ward to the sky in sinless gladness. 

My moon, beautiful, though ever changing, that glit- 
tered over Solomon's temple in all its glory, and over 
the lowly stable in the town of Bethlehem, when the 
sta~ guided shepherds worshiped there, now lights mil- 



16 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

lions of worshipers to the house of God in the stillness 
of Sabbath evenings. 

The poet adores me, for there is something in my 
shadowy mantle, my starr}^ canopy, and my sweet, low 
voice that harmonizes with his holiest dreams. 

The Christian loves me well, for in the «neditation of 
my quiet hours the light of immortality shines clear and 
undimmed. 

I look into human hearts and spy out secrets the day- 
time never dreamed of, holy and sad, and deep and 
sacred to memory. 

It is mine to kiss down the pale eyelids of the broken- 
hearted, and give to their spirits sweet visions born of 
sweeter memories. 

What though I bear not with me the song and bloom 
of morning, the dazzling splendor of the sun, nor its 
beams that glitter on the waves like diamonds, I show 
the many worlds that are unseen by day far off and 
beautiful, and there are the vales of never-dying flowers, 
and the fountains of living waters. 

Far along that shining pathway they go who seek the 
portals of the celestial city. 

I say to the children of men that here are the shadows 
of the tomb, there all is light, here death walks beside 
love, there is the reign of love only. 
To mortals I teach " holy lesssons 
Of the hopes unto sorrow given, 
That spring through the gloom of the darkest hours, 
Looking alone to Heaven." 

Morning. — Rejoice, oh earth ! I come to thee in my 
glowing loveliness, radiant and glad as when first I 
awoke on thy face at the voice of God. 

The tender buds that crown me unfold their leaves but 
to fling forth odors sweet as if born in heaven, and with 
my light upon them the dews of night become pearls. 

I have smiled on the far off isles of the sea, and poured 
j^Dlden light over gushing fountains, the echoes^-^f 
yH^se many waters gladden distant solitudes. 

As my silver car mounts the horizon, every breeze 
si)reads its pinion to flutter forth its joy, and many sweet 
voiced birds soar upward and sing after the angels teach- 
ing the glad and glorious anthem of nature. 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 17 

Darkness is lost ; shadows A^anish ; light that is 
beauty, light that is poetry, light that gleams from 
heaven and is divine, reign, and sorrow is vanquished ; 
for weeping, may endure for a night, but joy cometh 
with the morning. 

Blithe are the voices now, when rosy, bright-eyed 
children awake to the sound of the loving mother's voice 
among the beautiful homes of the world's many lands. I 
am an acknowledo:cd blessino^ to all, and darkness flies 
before my face from country to country. For thee, oh 
Earth ! I wear the same sweet smile I wore when I heard 
thy Maker's voice pronounce thee good. And never 
since my birth have I refused my light to thee save when 
on Calvary that dread scene was enacted at which I 
turned away, and shrouded all my beams in sorrow. 

But the luster of my youth was renewed on the morn- 
ing of the resurrection, when on a world of sin had 
dawned the Sun of Righteousness. Death w^as van- 
quished, and I, a type of the morning land, was seen in 
saintly visions beyond the tombs, and "there should be 
no Night there." 

I have been the loved and welcomed for ages past. 
I will be the beloved for ages to come. I shall be the 
glorified in the land of the hereafter. 



SCANDAL ON THE BRAIN. 

CHARACTERfc.. 
Emma. Sue, Lizzie. Fan. Aunt Harding. 



Emma \is alone, she yawns, throws aside her work, and 
exclaims'], Oh, dear I oh, dear I How lonesome I am ! I 
do wish the girls would come soon, it's so dull since the 
Fair, and I'm dying to hear some news ! I suppose 
Aunt Harding would lecture me soundly if she heard 
me say the like. There's the bell ! They are coming 
now. [Enter Sue and Lizzie, Emma rims to greet them.'] 
Oh, I am delighted to see you ! Why did you not come 
sooner ? I have been almost ready to perish with ennui. 
Le* me have your hats. 



18 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

Lizzie. — I don't know as it is hardly worth while foi 
the time we will stay ; Sue, what do you sa^^ ? 

Sue. — Yes, Lizzie, let's stay a little while. You know 
it has been an age since we've been here. I haA^e a fancy 
handkerchief to hem, and I heard 3^ou say you had your 
tatting collar in your pocket. 

Emma. — Oh, that will be just the thing! Stay all the 
afternoon with me I Mamma went out to make some 
calls and I am alone — we will have just the coziest kind 
of a time I What's the news ? It's so dull! I wished 
at dinner that some one's house would catch a-fire, and 
ma scolded me awfully for being so wicked. 

Sue. — Why were you not at the party last evening? 

Emma. — I did not feel well, and mamma would not 
hear to my going. It was such a disappointment ! 
Who was there ? How was every one dressed ? Tell 
me all about it ? 

Sue. — Well, first, Lizzie and I were there, then there 
were the Tracys, and the Cannons, Miss Williams and 
Mr. Holland, Mr. and Mrs. St. John, and Mrs. St. John's 
sister. 

Emma. — Why, I did not know they were home from 
their tour. 

Lizzie. — Yes ; and Mrs. St. John was dressed so 
handsomely I 

Emma. — I wonder if she is in debt for her beautiful 
clothes ? 

Sue. — I'm sure, I don't know. Then there was a Mr. 
Furgison with them, and Mrs. St. John told Mr. Lee 
that he is quite a catch, wealthy and handsome. 

Emma. — Struck He, I suppose. That's the way people 
come by fortunes now-a-days. 

Lizzie. — Emma Gather, you are for ever turning up 
your nose at people ! What's the difference how one 
comes by a fortune, so he has it ? • 

Emma. — Yes, and you go into ecstasies over a man if 
he has a little money and a mustache, and pronounce 
him distinguished looking I Oh ! 

Sue. — Now, Emma, you are too bad. Indeed, Mr. 
Furgison has a splendid set of whiskers, and father was 
speaking of him to-day, and he said he was talented be- 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 19 

side belonging to one of the oldest and wealthest fami« 
lies in Virginia. Tm going to pitch in for him. 

Emma. — Success to you ; so he has good sense and 
is not one of the shoddies, and his handkerchief is not 
scented with coal oil, he will do. Oh I there goes the 
bell ! I wonder who is coming ! \_Goes and returns with 
Fannie. ~\ 

Sue. — I'll bet it's Fan. Butts. You know she said she 
was coming. 

Emma. — It's Fan., girls. She has come to stay all the 
afternoon, too ! Give me yonr things, and take this chair. 

Lizzie. — Wh3^ you dear girl, how d'ye ! Take this fan. 

Sue. — How did you enjoy the party last evening? 

Fan. — Tip-top! Supper was splendid, w^asn't it? 
Didn't the Dumfrej^s try to put on style ? 

Lizzie. — Did you get acquainted with that MissBitner ? 

Fan. — Yes, I noticed Morris trying to shine around 
her. Don't he go ahead of any one you ever saw to 
fli7't ? Every strange young lady that comes to the 
city he must be her gallant ! He is so conceity, too I 

Sue. — They say he is abominably stingy, but has good 
habits. 

Fan. [ironically']. — Yes, so are the habits of most young 
gents ! 

Lizzie. — He came honestly by his stinginess. His 
father was so before him. Why, girls, pa says the wig old 
Mr. Morris wears is one his brother, who has been dead 
ten years, used to wear. After he died Morris took it 
to save bu3dng a new one. 

Emma. — I do wonder if it is true I I suppose the old 
gentleman was buried in his bald head 

Fan. — Oh, Emma ! 

Emma. — Was Grace at the party? 

Sue. — Yes, and don't you think Captain Blair was her 
escort ! I was perfectly surprised I 

Emma. — Weill I am astonished I I thought he waa 
not countenanced in society at all. I suppose, tlien, 
Grace will not discard him. Just like her, though. She 
said to me one day when I was giving her his pedigree, 
that she thought he was naturally good, that there was 
something fine about him, and that he tried to do what 
was right, and so on. Bah ! She is too smart for him I 



20 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

Sue. — Smart I I say she's a milksop ! I never heard 
of her doing any thing wonderful ! 

Lizzie. — Why, Sue, how dare you express yourself 
so about an authoress ! She writes beautifully I She 
has written one or two effusions for the Repository, and 
the editor of one of the juvenile periodicals hails her con- 
tributions with delight, I've heard. 

Sue. — Bah I I've read her spoutings ! / can write 
as well as she an}^ day. She is just a shallow little girl, 
iind believes herself illustrious 

Lizzie. — Now girls, I wont hear another word ! You 
all know she paints well and sings sweetly 

Emma. — Daubs brightly, and screams loudly, you 
mean ; her voice, instead of being " sweet as a nightin- 
gale's," is strong as — onions ! 

Fan. — Well, gals, let me tell you the joke on her. 

(xiRLS. — Oh, yes! The joke I tell us ! tell us ! 

Fan. — Well, if you will promise not to tell on me. I 
wouldn't have it come to their ears that I told it for 
any thing ! 

Girls. — We all promise ! 

Fan. — Never to tell on me ? 

Girls. — Never ! 

Fan. — Well, last week some young ladies sent Capt. 
Blair a har of soap, to wash Grace's neck and ears 1 

Emma. — Not so loud I Aunt Harding will surely 
hear ! [ The girls laugh.'] 

Sue. — Now, Fan., you don't mean to say that's true ? 

Fan. — Of course, it's true I 

Lizzie. — Well, it's too bad I Grace is careless, but 
not so bad as that. 

Emma. — I say it's good ! 

Sue. — Who were the young ladies? 

Fan. — Oh, I mus'n't tell that I I wonder if 

Emma. — That makes me think of Miss Orton. Have 
you heard the report on her ! 

Girls. — No ! No ! do tell us ! 

Emma. — I thought every one knew it 1 The othei 
evening she was standing at the gate, where she boards, 
talking with Bob Brandon, and he kissed her I It was 
bright moonlight, and some folks across the street eaiv 
them 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 21 

Fan. — Oh ! that is horrible ! 

Sue. — Why, he is the hardest case in town I I would 
not believe she would speak to him ! 

Lizzie. — Only think ! He plays billiards and drinks, 
and is a gambler, too ! 

Fan. — But girls do you believe it ? 

Lizzie. — I do. I never could bear her anyhow ! 

Sue. — / believe it ! 

Fan. — / don't ; for Miss Cassell is very intimate with 
her, and she told me that this Bob Brandon goes with 
Miss Thomas, who lives the very next door to Miss 
Orton, and you know a mistake might be made easil}^ 
besides I heard her say not long since, that Miss Orton 
only knew Brandon by sight. 

Emma, — Where there is smoke there is fire. 

Lizzie. — Speaking of Miss Cassell — ma was there to 
tea last week, and she said she never sat down to such 
a table in her life. She could hardly find enough to 
satisfy her appetite I besides, they had no najDkins nor 
individual salts ; both of which are awful. 

Emma. — S'pose we all go there to tea some afternoon I 

Fan. — Oh, girls, I have a capital idea ! It just struck 
me ! Let's form an inquisitive club I 

Girls. — Inquisitive club 1 What's that ? Something 
new? 

Fan. — You see, I just thought of it. When I was in 
Lawrence last summer, the girls had such a club. 

Emma. — Not so loud, Aunt Harding will surely hear I 

Fan. — Who cares for Auntie ! [in a lower tone.'] We 
met once a week at one of the girl's houses. No gentle- 
men were admitted, so they gave it the name of scandal 
circle — all of spite you know, and we had the most fun 
at those meetings ever you heard of? 

Emma. — But what did you do ? 

Fan. — Why every member was a committee of one to 
find out all she could about every body's business. We 
were posted on every thing that was going on. We 
knew all the reports in circulation ; what girls were en- 
gaged, and who were not ; we knew who every body cor- 
responded with, how much every one was in debt — no 
one was spared, from the minister's wife down. We 
dissected e^iery one, and the girl that could give the most 



22 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

information in the most comical manner, was the best 
fellow, and every one who failed paid a fine. 

Lizzie. — That would be gay ! But I don't think ma 
would approve of it. 

Sue. — That's Lizzie for 3^ou, afraid of ma I 

Emma. — Don't let ma know anj^ thing about it. 

Fan. — No, you little goose, that's the fun of it. But 
the best part was our practical jokes ! We plaj^ed some 
of the richest ones, I must tell you. — \_Aunt Harding, an 
old fashioned old woman, with cap and spectacles on 
rushes in, with her knitting, etc., very much excited.'] 
Well, gals, if I ever I I didn't mean to hear what you 
said but I couldn't help it! — \_Girls look at each other 
scared.] Miss Emily what do 3^ou spose 3^our mar 
would say if she'd a' heerd you talking 'bout folks as 
you've bin a' doin' this arternoon ? Say 1 

Emma. — Don't, Auntie! Do be still, we were only in 
fun. 

Auntie. — I wont be still. I tell you, you're all given 
over to the wrath to come if you don't mend your wa3^s. 

Emma \_aside~\. — I knew Auntie would hear us, what 
will I do ? 

Auntie. — I heerd what ye was a' sayin' about the 
party, 'bout what folks had on an' this one an' that one 
an' t'other, 'bout one feller bein' sting}^ an' 'bout Miss 
Lane, an' the Lord knows she's smarter than any of ye 
— Miss Cassell's mar didn't have enough fur [turning to 
Lizzie] your mar to eat, did she ? I think she must 
have an awful stomach. 

Emma. — Auntie, please don't. 

Auntie. — I wont please [turns to Fan"], but when ye 
come to talk as ye did 'bout an insquisitive club I could 
Stan' it no longer! Findin' out other folks' business, 
medlin' things that ye are — I think j^e'd better be to 
hum mendin' the holes in yer stockin's or helpin' 3'er 
mar's wash dishes ! ThaVs what / thinks on't ! Dissec- 
tin'' the poor creeturs, too ! oh my! what on airth ye comin' 
to ! Even the minister's family ! Insquistion club ! 
When / was a gal what would folks said at us if we 
had done the like o' this! I'll tell your par I will Emel- 
ine Gather. It's bad enough for ole' wimmin' folks to 
talk, but I'll d«»clare on it, if ye can't beat 'em alll 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 23 

Emma. — Oh, Auntie, do please be still — girls, never 
mind. 

Fan. — Don't mind us. Emma, we deserve it all. 

Auntie. — Desarve it all an' more too. I should think 
the men folks would call it scandal circle. I'd advise ye 
to form a 3^oung ladies female wimmin folks prayer- 
meeting circle, instead of scandalizing this way. 

Sue. — Yes, Emma, we have been talking about every 
body awfully ,hwt I'm sure 7 meant no harm. 

Lizzie. — Nor I. I am sorry that I forgot the Golden 
Pvule for an instant. 

Fan. — And the Inquisitive club ! It was lots of fun, 
but when I turn it round and think of it as Aunt Har- 
ding does, it is ridiculous ! Oh, I am ashamed to re- 
member that I proposed such a thing ! 

Emma. — Girls ! I do believe we have been suffering 
this afternoon with scandal on the brain. 

Auntie. — I guess so, too, gals. 

Girls. — Yes, scandal on the brain ! that must be 
what ails us, and if the audience, and Aunt Harding 
will forgive us, we pledge ourselves [they join hands] 
hereafter to speak well of our friends and say nothing 
of our enemies. 

Auntie. — I'll forgive ye with all my heart, gals 
[steps in front of the gii^W] ; I guess this is not the only 
Insquistion club in the world, nor these the only ones 
with " scandal on the hrain.^^ an' I would advise all per- 
sons to " mind their own business" if they don't want to 
catch the orful disease ! [ Curtain falls.'] 



THE COMMON BOND. 

Page. — 

Who are you, my little neighbor, 
Wandering in the woods so late ? 
Oft I've seen you at your labor, 
Loitering near the garden-gate. 

Peasant-girl. — 

I'm the Miller Martin's daughter : 
Gentle Page, I crave your pardon, 
If I never stopped to heed you, 
Lingering near the Countess' garden. 



24 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

Mme the task to weed the borders, 
Mine, the strawberries to gather ; 
Yours, to serve your lady's orders, 
Or unhehn her noble father. 
Yet believe, oh, stately boy ! 
Dressed in rich and gay profusion, 
Satin scarf and velvet cap. 
Plume and tress in bright confusion; 
Mine as light a heart as thine, 
Songs as blithe, and sleep as tender I 

Page. — 

Yes, my little cottage-maid ! 
For this grace our thanks we render, 
Daily at our mistress' board. 
Nightly at the chapel shrine. 
Thanks and praise our hearts afford, 
That thy lot is blest as mine ; 
That the rich and poor, as one, 
Share the bounties of Our Father 1 
Feel alike the summer sun. 
And the garden treasures gather ! 
This the tie that binds, in love, 
Great and small, sublime and lovely; 
Lifts our grateful hearts above, 
Toward the throne of God, most holy I 



PHRENOLOGY. 



Dr. Phrenology [with a pompous tone]. — Ah I whut 
a wondrous age is this ; an age of philosophj^ and intel- 
lectual light. Who can contemplate the rapid march of 
intellect, as it rolls onward in proud triumph, and not 
feel his heart exult in the approaching perfect ability 
of all human knowledge ; a triumph at which the stars 
of heaven stand aghast ; but oh ! phrenology, most occult, 
3^et most noble of all sciences ; though now ridiculed 
and scoffed at, thou art destined to burst forth in daz- 
zling splendor, and sweep away the darkness of ages. 
March on thou science of scieuceSj thou grand climac- 
teric of all human discoveries. Oh, happy, thrice happy 
era, when phrenology 



STANDARD DIALOGUES • 25 

Linguist [interrupting']. — Oh ! circlaso Rexator, are 
^ o\\ giving lectures to ghosts and hobgoblins ? Phreu' 
o^ogy comes from the Greek word Phreno, Phrenoso, 
Pephronoko, (to bring one to his wits,) and hence also 
Phresis, Pephriticus, Morbus (a disease which seems to 
have turned your brains). Inverse ortum, and happy, 
thrice happy will 3^ou be if phrenology restores j^ou to 
your wits, before you find the interior of a Hospitium 
Insanatum ; in plain English, " a bedlam." 

f*HRENOLOGiST — You impudent, brainless fellow, do 
you thus address a man of my honorable standing and 
profession. Perhaps you are not aware of addressing a 
professor of that most sublime and most profound of all 
scibflces, phrenology. Have you not heard, sir, of Dr. 
Bm.ipologies, FRS., AAS., LLD ? 

L/NGUiST [LLD., Legiim]. — Doctor, the very degree 
acquired by our honorable President, and also conferred 
upoYi the celebrated Prince Black Hawk. I am per- 
suaded of your right to the title Bumpologicus, Phren- 
ologiv'us, Pompologicus, or any other logicus. 

Professor Ponderation, a noted philosopher, lives 
just here, who would be glad, I presume, to learn 
something of this Occulticimus, Etnohellicimus Scienti- 
tia from so learned and renowned a professor. I'll 
call him, sir. [j5'noc/?s] Hallo ! [Servant enters.'] 

Servant. — What's wanting? 

Linguist. — Is your master at home ? 

Servant. — I guess he is, sir; he was here just now. 
. Linguist. — Tell him Mr. Obstreperosity, a particular 
friend, wants to see him. 

Servant. — Ohstrecherosity , I should think so, yes, I 
will tell him. [Servajit departs.'] 

Phrenologist [alone ivith linguist]. — I contend, sir, 
that phrenology is one of the most important discoveries 
ever invented by man. Wh^^, sir, b}' a careful inspec- 
tion of the cicibral developments, every trait in a man's 
character is scientifically^ explained, and infallibly dis- 
covered. [Enter p)hilosoplier and servant.] 

Linguist [to philosopher]. — Good-morning, Mr. Pon- 
deration, I have the honor to introduce you, sir, to Dr. 
Bumpologicus, Erudicimuset Biimpologiciuius, profes- 
SG". who can tell at once, by a tangible oj^e ration upon the . 



26 * STANDARD DIALOGUES 

excrescences of y oiir pericranium, whether you are a phi' 
losopher, phrenologist, physiognomist, fiddler or fool. 

Philosopher. — I had supposed, sir, that in order to 
determine a man's genius and character, it was neces- 
sary to descend beneath the exterior of the skull, but it 
seems I have been mistaken. 

Phrenologist. — I presume, sir, you are unacquainted 
with my theory — which is that each faculty of the mind 
is appropriated to a particular organ of the brain, which 
organ is known by the cerebral developments on the 
skull ; and that every man is scientifically under the 
necessity of being and thinking what these prominences 
indicate that he should be and think. 

Servant. — Now, Mr. Bumpus cornfessor, I know thaVs 
true, for t'other day I bumped my skull most plaguely, 
and I tell you I couldn't help thinking fifty things in a 
half a second. 

Philosopher. — It will require some phrenological 
sagacity, sir, to make it appear that a man must neces- 
sarily act thus and thus, because he has a bump on this 
Ot that part of the skull. 

Phrenologist. — I tell you, sir, that careful and ex- 
tensive observations have clearly proved that all are 
under the influence of these several organs, and it is 
morally impossible for them to act otherwise, than these 
cerebral developments indicate they should. 

Servant \to Bumpolog ions'], — Sir, a swarm of ponder- 
ations will fly before you, like grasshoppers before a 
limping hemp-dresser. You dash at once the scales 
from our eye-winkers, and in streams light through 
skulls, though as thick as the staves of a wash-tub, and 
opens not only the origin of dispositions, but thoughts, 
which come forth in the character of bumps on the per- 
icranum ; even if they come as plenty as the flies about 
my master's fish-pond in summer. 

\_Linguist speaks to philosopher.'] 

Linguist. — Such discussions as these, if not instruc- 
tive, are amusing ; but I must retire to amuse myself 
at my library, having added some new volumes to my 
fofnaer stock. Good-day, sir. \_Retires.'] 

[^Some one calls to the phreiwlogist.'] 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 27 

You will confer a favor by stepping this way. I will, 
sir, as it gives me as much pleasure to teach in private 
as well as in public, \_He retires.y^ 



CORRECT HABITS. 

CHARACTERS. 

Salem Town, a distinguished teacher. 

John W. Newman, 

Henry D. Wise, \ Salem Town's pupils. 

William Brewer, 



Scene 1. — Salem Town's Address. 

My much-esteemed Pupils: — As our school has now 
drawn to a close, and I am about to leave you, perhaps 
to see you no more on earth, I feel it my dutj^ to call 
your attention to several subjects, which are intimately 
connected with your future prosperity, usefulness, and 
happiness. Almost every da}^ since m}^ connection with 
this school I have given you more or less of advice and 
counsel, " here a little and there a little." 1 am now 
before you for the last time, and shall proceed to give 
you my last, m^^ parting counsel and advice, as to the 
course which, in my opinion, it will be both your duty 
and interest to pursue. I trust you. will hear me pa- 
tiently, and with the utmost attention. 

You will be called upon in a few years, should j^ou 
live, to battle with the stern realities of life. And as 
it is indispensably necessarj^ for the soldier, before going 
to battle, to be properly, armed and equipped, and have 
the benefit of thorough drilling and discipline in the art 
of war, so it is quite as necessary for you to undergo a 
thorough training in mind, morals, and manners, before 

* This dialogue is intended to ridicule only the quack phren- 
ological lecturers, who travel over the country and misrepresent 
and bring into disrepute the science of Phrenology. We wish 
that triflers could all be rid out of society, and this important 
subject represented by its more able and conscientious advo- 
cates 



2S STANDARD DIALOGUES 

you can enter the great arena of active life with any 
well grounded hope of becoming a really useful memhei 
of society, and occupying high positions of honor and 
trust. Life is one great struggle, and he is wise that 
prepares himself to meet its trials, its duties, and its 
emergencies. 

No intelligent person will pretend to deny, that the 
better a man is educated, the better citizen he will be — 
the more good will he do — the happier he will be — the 
more capable of making others happy — and the better 
will he subserve the great and noble purposes for which 
his Creator designed him. 

Early impressions are the most lasting, and have a 
wonderful influence in forming character. Hence the 
reason why parents and teachers should take great pains 
to make good and correct impressions upon the minds 
of children. It is said, and with good reason, too, that 
*' youth receives impressions, and manhood ratifies 
them." How important, then, that correct outlines for 
future life be presented to the youthful mind, that a 
broad foundation may be laid for the great temple of 
Truth. 

My first advice to you is, study to do right, irrespec- 
tive of consequences. Do right, and let the conse- 
quences take care of themselves. In your conduct 
toward your schoolmates, and others with whom you 
associate, cultivate high and noble principles of gene- 
rosit}'' and kindness, and prove your friendship by a 
willingness to sacrifice your own happiness to secure 
that of others. Guard against ill temper. Labor to 
subdue every bad passion. Choose to suffer wrong 
rather than to do wrong ; and, what I regard as very 
important, never indulge in speaking ill of any one. If 
you can not speak well, hold your peace. Cultivate po- 
liteness everywhere, at home and abroad — first, at home, 
and then it will be easy and natural for you to practice 
it abroad. Let these principles grow with your growth, 
and strengthen with your strength ; and when you shall 
have completed your labors at school, your correct 
moral principles will turn your learning into the right 
channel, and you will enter out upon life with fair pros- 
pects of gaining the esteem and confidence of the wise 



STANDAED DIALOGUES 29 

and the good. You will be promoted to the highest 
positions of honor and trust, and 3^ou will fill out the 
measure of your days in the full enjoyment of the mul- 
tiplied blessings of life, an ornament to society and an 
honor to your country. 

In conclusion, I would say a few words in reference 
to the best means to be employed to develop and 
strengthen the mind, and prepare you to search success- 
fully for the exhaustless treasures of knowledge. 

The first indisputable requisite is, punctuality in at- 
tending school. And whenever the hour arrives for 
study, summon to your aid every faculty of your mind, 
and never allow it to be diverted from your lesson till 
it is completely mastered. This going to your task half 
dreaming and half awake, irresolute and uninterested, 
is just the way to weaken j^our mind, and to hedge up 
your way with diflSculties, which accumulate and appear 
more and more insuperable at every step in your ascent 
up the hill of science. Bend to your task, my boys. 
Let every fibre of your minds be tasked to their utmost 
tension, and soon diflftculties, one after another, will give 
way, and vanish like dew before the morning sun. Thus 
will your minds gain strength, and expand, and enlarge, 
and you will be able to take wider and more comprehen- 
sive views of nature and of science. 

Thus go on, from day to day, deporting yourselves 
in good morals, and habits, and manners, as well as in 
every thing that pertains to the good student, in such a 
dignified and sensible manner as will command the love 
and esteem of your schoolmates, your parents, and of 
your teachers. 

Now, my much-esteemed pupils, fill up faithfully the out- 
lines I have given you — carry out faithfull}^ the doctrines 
and principles I have oflTered you as your guiding-star up 
the hill of science — and ir a few yesivs you will have 
completed your studies, and your worth will be appre- 
ciated, and societ}^ with one unanimous voice, will shout, 
" Come up higher !" and you will be promoted to high 
and honorable positions, and stand preeminenth^ above 
those of your schoolmates who, though they may have en- 
joyed equal advantages with you, yet fail to make use 
of tHe proper means and applian( es for the accomplish- 
14 



30 STANDARI) DIALOGUES 

ment of that which those of higher aspirations have at« 
tained. 

I submit these well-intended remarks to jour serious 
reflection, trusting that some of you at least will profit 
b} them, and thai, after many days, I shall see, with 
satisfaction and pride, the fruits of my labor. 

\_Exit all hut John, Henry, and William.'] 

John. — Well, boys, what do you think of Mr. Town's 
good-by speech ? 

Henry. — I think the advice he gave us was excellent, 
and I'm more than half inclined to make the most of 
it. 

William. — Yes, I'd like to see you about it. It will 
be after this, I reckon. I don't swallow all his doctrines 
by a long ways. 

John. — Why, Bill, what did he say that you can take 
exceptions to ? 

William. — Why he said a heap of things. 

John. — Well, let's hear what they were. 

William. — Oh, I don't remember all he said, but I 
know I aint going to trouble myself to do half nor 
quarter of what he recommended. Think I'm going to 
split my head open studying ? no sir-e-e ! 

Henry. — Did he say you must do that ? 

William. — No ; not in those words exactl}^, but that's 
what he meant, I suppose. 

John. — He urged the importance of forming correct 
habits of study, and said it would be greatlj^ to our in- 
terest to study hard; and I believe it and, as Henry said, 
I'm resolved to carry out in every particular, as far as I 
am able, the plan he offered and recommended for our 
adoption. 

William. — Two silly boys ! just as though 3'ou can 
remember half he said over night. He can't cage me, 
boys, depend upon it ; I'm not going to submit to all 
this school drudgery for nothing. The great thing in 
this world is to get a living. Mr. Town kept telling us 
almost every day that the great object in coming to 
school was to learn to think. Nonsense ! I could think 
well enough afore I over went to school at all. Then 
ag'in he would tell us that the grand object was, to pre- 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 31 

pare us for the great and responsible duties of after life, 
to use Ms own words. Pshaw, who believes such as 
that ; I think the great object is to get a good livings 
and just as though splittin' one's head open tryin' to 
work hard sums, or conjugate a parcel of nonsensical 
verbs, would help anybody about hoein' corn and such, 
or make oak rails split open any easier I It's all 
nonsense. It's well enough to know how to read and 
write some, and the like of that. Just look at old John 
Cross, why he's as rich as a Jew, and he doesn't know a 
letter. 

John. — Well, old John Cross, as you call him, is one 
out of a thousand. He has managed, it is true, by 
his shrewdness, and avarice, and dishonesty combined, 
to accumulate what some would call a fortune. But 
what signifies wealth to such a man as Mr. Cross ! why 
he's one of tlie most unhappy beings on earth, and 
everybody knows tliat societ}- is no better off for all his 
wealth, and he is esteemed as little perhaps as any man 
in this country. His money does him no good nor any- 
body else. 

William. — Well, I know I'd enjoy mj^self mighty 
well, if I had half his mone}^ 

Henry. — You seem to forget, or else you never knew 
in what true happiness consists, William ; for my part, 
I think there is but little happiness in money, especially 
when its use is controlled by a spirit of avarice and 
selfishness. 

William. — You precious little learned saint j'ou ! do 
tell me, if you please, what happiness consists in, if it's 
not in getting mone3^ I heard our teacher say here one 
day in school, that ever^^ body was eager in pursuit of 
happiness, now any bod}^ can see with only one eye 
open that every body's hard at work to get money, and 
when they get it aint they happy ? now then I 

Henry. — This kind of happiness is only temporary ; 
it vanishes as soon as the money has gone. There is a 
happiness of a higher order ; a happiness that is ever 
springing up afresh in the heart and which sweetens 
many of the ills of life. 

William. — Pray be so kind as to tell what it is ? 

Henry. — Well, sir, I can in a very few words. It ii 



32 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

the happiness which arises from doing good and making 
others happy. 

William. — Yes, yes, I understand. Well I'm too in- 
dependent to want anybody's help to make me happy. 
My doctrine is ''let every man take care of himself." 
If I can manage by hook or crook or in some way to 
get plenty of money, I'll risk but what I'll be happy 
enough to do me, and get through the world as respect- 
ably as either of you who are so crazy about all those 
hifalutin notions and whims of Mr. Town. 

John. — Come, boys, we've shown our colors. We are 
about to separate and go to our respective homes, in 
different States, and I move we suspend further discus- 
sion, till old father Time, in future years, assumes the 
province of Umpire, and then we'll be apt to get a wise 
and correct decision. 

Henry. — I second the motion. \^Exit all."] 

Scene 2. — Salem Town with spectacles on reading a 
newspaper. A rap is heard at the door. Enter John 
W. Newman, governor of New York. 

Governor Newman. — Good-evening, sir. 

Salem Town. — Good, evening sir, walk in. 

Governor Newman. — I think I recognize my old 
friend and teacher Salem Town. [^Shaking hands."] 

Salem Town. — My name is Town, sir, but really 
you have the advantage of me — that voice sounds famil- 
iar, it seeriis as though I ought to know you. \_Gets the 
candle and holds it up to his face.] I do declare I can 
come within one of guessing. It is either John New- 
man or Henry Wise, and if you'll repeat the first 
line of Brutus's address at the funeral of Caesar, I can 
tell which it is. 

Governor Newman. — Friends, Romans, Country- 
men — 

Salem Town [overjoyed]. — It's John Newman I it's 
John Newman, I know it is ! Am I not correct? 

Governor Newman. — Quite correct — John Newman, 
your old student at Aurora, New York — I'm glad to see 
you. 

Salem Town. — And I'm rejoiced to see you, too. I've 
been long wishing for this. 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 33 

Governor Newman. — Having business iu Missouri 
I resolved not to leave the State till I had paid you. a 
visit, and tendered you my sincerest gratitude for your 
instructions in early life, and particularly for the trul^^ 
excellent advice and counsel you gave us on the last 
day of school. I owe my peculiar success in m^^ studies, 
and in my political career, and my position in society 
and in business to the address to which 1 have j ust alluded. 

Salem Town. — It rejoices my heart, sir, to hear you 
profited so much by it. But tell me where is Henry 
Wise. Do you know any thing of him ? 

Governor Newman. — Oh yes; he's coming to see 
you. 

Salem Town. — When, pray? [_A rap at the door. J 

Governor Newman. — 1 guess he's coming now. 
\_Enter Judge Wise']. 

Governor Newman [takes Wise by the arm]. — This 
is Judge Wise. 

Salem Town [shaking hands'] — Judge Wise, your 
most obedient. But I thought 3^ou said you expected 
Henry Wise, ^-our old class-mate, here to see me to night 

Governor Newman. — This is he — the very same. 
He, too, is on precisely the same errand that brought 
me here. 

Salem Town. — Why, Henry, how do j'ou do ? 

Judge Wise. — I am well, and exceeding glad to see 
you. Why, Governor Newman, isn't this a rich treat ! 

Salem Town. — Who's this you are calling Governor 
Newman ; explain yourself. You don't mean to say that 
my old student John W. Newman here has turned gov- 
ernor ? 

Judge Wise. — It is truly so, or rather the people of 
New York made him governor. 

Salem Town. — John Newman a governor, and Henry 
Wise judge. Pretty respectably sounding prefixes to 
your names, 3^ou've got, boys ; but Governor Newman 
you didn't tell me what kind of a judge Henr3^ is, but I 
suppose [laughing] it's one of the commonest kind, 
probate judge, or something that way. 

Governor Newman. — Higher than that, Mr. Town. 
He has the h^uor of being Judge of the Supreme Court 
of the United States. 



34 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

Salem Town. — Is it possible ! But I am not so 
much astonished after all, for I often remarked when 
you were my students, that John Newman and Henry 
Wise would some day, in my opinion, be men of distinc- 
tion. I gave as a reason, that they were very studious, 
and seemed to take great pains to cultivate good morals 
and manners, and to comply with the rules of school. 
But what's become of William — the boys used to 
call him Bill — somebody, I can't think who ? 

Governor Newman. — You mean William Brewer, I 
presume. 

Salem Town. — Yes, that's the name. Have you ever 
heard what's become of him ? I don't carry a very pleas- 
ing record of him in my mind. I always thought he 
would never be of much account in the world. 

Judge Wise. — I understood several years ago that 
he had joined a traveling circus, and was serving in 
the capacity of teamster. I learned, also, that he had 
become very dissipated, and was, on the whole, rather a 
worthless character. \^Fnter a servanf] 

Servant. — Here's a man at the gate, wants to know 
if he can get to stay all night. He says he's got no 
money, but he is a tinker and will mend up the old tin 
pans in the morning. 

Salem Town. — Tell him to come in. 

[^Enter tiaker or Bill Brewer,'] 

Good-evening, gentlemen ; I called to see if I could 
get supper and lodgings to-night, and I'm pretty tired 
and hungry, too, having traveled since breakfast with- 
out dinner, 'cause why plain enough — I had no mone}^, 
and nobody appeared to want any work (k)ne in my 
line. If you please allow me to stay with you to-night 
and in the morning hunt up all your old tin ware and 
as sure as my name is Bill Brewer \_all look at each, 
other] I'll mend them all up in the nicest manner for 

you. 

Salem Town. — Be seated, sir, you look tired. You 
can stay with us, sir. I never refused supper and lodg- 
ing to a traveler whether he has money or not. Did I 
understmd you to say your name was Bill Brewer? 

Wm. Brewer. — Yes sir; William Brewer is my name: 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 35 

but the bo3^s used to call me Bill, and evmybody, I be* 
lieve, calls me Bill now. 

Salem Town. — Pardon my curiosity ; but did you 
ever go to school in Aurora, New York ? 

Wm. Brewer. — Yes, sir, when I was a boy ; and I 
often think of the discussion John Newman, Henry 
Wise and me had after our teacher, Mr. Town, had 
given his farewell address to the school. You see, they 
indorsed every word he said, and promised themselves 
they'd do just exactly as he advised us all to do. But I 
took strong grounds against his speech, and we had 
quite a warm discussion over it. 

Salem Town. — Well, who got the best of it ? 

Wm. Brewer. — Well, we adjourned without any decis- 
eion, and agreed to call in old Father Time as Umpire, 
and renew the discussion the next time we met, which 
we didn't expect would happen for many years, and 
goodness onl}^ knows whether we'll ever meet or not. 

Salem Town. — Do you think you would know j^our 
old teacher, Mr. Town, if you should see him? 

Wm. Brewer. — Well, I dare say I might ; but he's get- 
ting pretty old, and may be dead for what I know. 

Salem Town. — Not dead yet, sir. My name is Salem 
Town, the ver}^ same j^ou went to school to in Aurora, 
New York. I don't wonder you didn't recognize me, 
for sickness and old age have greatly altered my ap- 
pearance. \_Shaking hands.'] How do you do, William ? 

Wm. Brewer. — Not to say very well, sir ; and the 
worst is I'm ashamed to meet you under such circum- 
stances. 

Salem Town. — Oh, make yourself easy, William I 
There's many a one worse off than you in the world, I 
dare say. 

Wm. Brewer. — That all may be true ; but when I 
reflect how stupid I was, not to heed the good advice 
you gave us, I can hardly forgive myself. The conse- 
quence of this neglect is that I'm now a poor wanderer 
through the world, without any home, without friends, 
and without a respectable trade even, by which to make 
a living. 

Salem Town. — I presume you would be glad to meet 
with your old friends, John and Henry, and renew 



36 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

your acquaintance, and finish up that discussion — - 
wouldn't you? 

Wm. Brewer. — Sorter glad and sorter not, as the old 
clown used to say. Why they've got up so high in the 
world before this time they wouldn't know me, wouldn't 
even say "how do?" to such a bundle of rags as I am^ 
aid a tinker at that, 

Salem Town. — Oh ! I have no doubt they would both 
be gla^d to see you. Do j-ou think you would know 
them if you should meet them in your travels ? 

Wm. Brewer. — Know them ! yes, in a minute. I 
shall never forget how they looked. 

Salem Town. — Pardon my impoliteness. I suppose 
you are not acquainted with these gentlemen ? 

Wm. Brewer. — Never saw them before, that I recol- 
lect of, sir. 

Salem Town. — Well, William Brewer, allow me the 
pleasure of introducing you to Judge Wise and Governor 
Newman, your classmates in Aurora. I will withdraw 
while 3'ou conclude your long postponed discussion ; 
trusting that old Father Time, who is now present, and 
to whom 3^ou agreed to submit your arguments for de- 
cision at your next meeting, will do you full justice. 

Wm. Brewer. — Am I dreaming ! The decision is 
made and I am satisfied. By faithfully filling up the 
outlines, submitted to us by our worthy teacher, to be 
our guide in the formation of our habits and character, 
Henry Wise is now Judge Wise, and John Newman is 
now Governor Newman, and I, Bill Brewer, by rejecting 
bis counsel, am — what ? An outcast and a tinker. 
[ Curtain falls,^ 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 37 



THE SECRET. 



Hettie [running to overtake Mary on her way to 
schoof]. — Oh, Mary, wait a minute, won't you ? Don't 
be in a hurry. 

Mary. — Why, Hettie, what is the matter ? You look 
as tired as though you had been running this half hour. 

Hettie. — Well, I should think I was tired, running 
clear from the corner, and calling you loud enough to 
split my throat open. 

Mary. — Well, Hettie, you know I didn't hear you ; 
if I had I'd Avaited ; but we musn't stop here, for it's 
almost time for the bell to ring, and I wouldn't be late 
for any thing. 

Hettie. — Oh, well, we sha'n't be late, for it was only 
eight o'clock, when I started, and I've run all the way. 
Let's sit down here a few minutes, it's so cool and 
shady, and I'm so tired. 

Mary. — Well, I'll wait a few minutes, and only just 
a few. 

Hettie. — Why, Mary, I believe you like to go to 
school, but I don't. It's school, school, school, school, 
from morning till night. I hate these old books, and this 
old school. I wish there was no such thing as school. 

Mary. — Why, Hettie, I don't; I like to go to 
school, and get m}^ lessons, and write compositions, 
because mother says I ought to. 

Hettie. — Well, I don't, if mother does say I ought 
to. But, oh, Mary [clapping her hands'], I heard some« 
thing. I know something, Mary. 

Mary. — Well, Hettie, you'll tell me, wont you ? You 
know I always tell you every thing. 

Hettie. — I'd like to, Mary, but then I can't. It's a 
secret. Mother doesn't know that I know it, nor sister 
Emily. 

Mary. — Oh, now, Hettie, you're too bad. If I ever 
know a secret, I'd tell Dora Yan, would I! I shan't 
tell you — but come, tell me, please do. 

Hettie — Oh, I musn't, Mary, indeed I musn't 



38 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

Mother said it was a secret, and I don't know what 
she'd do to me if she knew that I know it. I'll tell you 
some, though. 

Mary. — Oh, now come, tell me. If you will, I'll give 
you all these flowers [Jiolding a bouquet]. 

Hettie. — I say I'll tell you some, but I can't tell the 
secret. 

Mary. — Well, I'll give these flowers to Dora. But 
come now, Hettie, if you will tell me all I'll give you 
my new wax doll that father brought me from New 
York. Its nose isn't cracked, nor nothing. 

Hettie. — I can't tell you all, indeed I can't, but I'll 
tell you some. Mr. White comes to our house, oh, so 
often I And every time he comes he pats me on the 
cheek, and says, "Hettie, isn't it most your bedtime ?" 
just as if I was a little girl and didn't know my own 
bedtime. But that isn't all. If I ask Emily any 
thing she says, "never mind now, dear ; run ofl" to your 
play." And mother comes and calls me, and says, 
"didn't you know your sister was engaged ?" I suppose 
she didn't think I knew what that meant, but I did 
though, and I think she might answer my question if 
she is engaged. But I don't care, for I know some- 
thing, and she doesn't know that I know it, either. 
The other night after Mr. White went away, mother and 
Emily were talking. It was so warm they opened the 
bed-room door, and they thought I was asleep, but I 
wasn't. Emily had a new white dress ; it cost fifty 
dollars at the City Mill Store, and the best dressmaker 
in town is making it. And mother is baking such lots 
of cake ! I just wish you could see it. There is one, I 
do believe it's that high [ineasuring its height from iJie 
floor'], all made out of little ones on top of each other, 
and all covered over with candies and raisins. There is 
another — I do believe it's that big [inaking a half 
circle with her arms], and just as white as snow. 

Mary \_ jumping up and clapping her hands]. — Oh I 
I know, I know, I know ; Emily is going to be married. 
— Emily is going to be married. 

Hettie \_ jumping up and throwing her arms around 
Mary] — Well, I didn't tell you, did I ? You guessed 
it — yoii guessed it — you guessed it, didn't you ? 



STANDAKD DIALOGUES 39 

Mary. — Oh, there goes the bell ! I wish we hadn't 
«vaited. 

Hettie. — Oh, well, we shan't be late — well run. 



THE TWO FRIENDS. 



CHARACTERS. 



Tom, a school boy. Harry, his friend. 

James Trueman, son of his employer, late from college. 



BcENE 1. — A village street. Tom and Harry meet, one 
well dressed, the other shabbily. 

Harry. — Good-mornino^, Tom. Going to school to- 
diy? 

Tom. — No, Harry ; pa is sick and I can not go any 
rnore. 

Harry. — What 1 never ? 

Tom. — My school days are over, I fear. I did so hope 
I could continue this session, but ma saj^s it's im- 
possible — I must work to support the family. 

Harry. — Too bad, Tom. VVe will miss you so ; our 
teacher, too, will miss 3'ou sadly. Where will you 
work ? 

Tom. — On Mr. Trueman's farm. 

Harry. — That old curmudgeon. It's a mile to his 
farm, and, work as you may, 3^ou- can't please him, 
better come to school and get the prize. 

Tom. — I can not [^sighs']. But, Harry, I will be at 
home every evening; I can study, you know. 

Harry. — Oh, yes, youll be a ripe scholar, no doubt, 
with your little brothers crying around. 

Tom [after a pause']. — If somebody would cnly teach 
me. 

Harry. — I believe our teacher is too bi/sy to teach 
around after school hours. 

Tom. — I did not mean him — if some of the boys would 
study w'th me— ^^ 



40 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

Harry. — I would like to help 3'ou, Tom, but I have 
so many engagements. May be Bill Smith would study 
with you. I'll mention it to him. \^Turns away.'] 

Tom. — Oh, no ; don't tell anybody. 

Harry [comes back']. — Well, I won't. I'll be your 
friend, Tom, through thick and thin. If you want a 
favor come to me. Good-by, Tom. Good luck to you. 
IGoes off muttering that's the way father talks to poor 
people. Curtain falls.] 

Scene 2. — Tom alone in Mr. Truemaji^s library reading. 
Enter James. 

James — Tom, you appear to be devoted to books. I 
hope you are not reading any thing trashy. \_Looks over 
his shoulder, steps back surprised.] Is it possible that 
you read Latin ? 

Tom. — A little, sir. I have not much time for stud}^ 

James [_seats himself]. — Any other boy would say, 
no time for stud3^ But how do you get on by your- 
self. 

Tom. — Very slowly, but ma says, as I am learning so 
many things I must not expect to get on fast. 

James. — You are not j^erplexing yourself with too 
many studies I hope ? 

Tom. — Oh, no, Algebra is m}^ principal study ; but she 
says I am learning patience, diligence, and self-reliance 
beside learning to reason widel}^ and think deeply ; these 
are learned without being studies, and my teacher said 
the last day I was at school, that the nation needed 
thinkers. 

James. — Very true ; I wish there were more such 
mothers in the land. Tom, could you not stay with us 
every night? 

Tom — Don't know, sir; believe pa would let me, now 
he is well. 

James. — Get his consent and I will teach you from 
six till nine every evening. 

Tom. — Thank you, Mr. Trueman ; I can never thank 
you enough. But you must only give me a few lessons, 
then I can get on better ; it will be such dull, tiresome 
work, that I can not allow my best friend to be more 
imposed upon. 






STANDARD DIALOGUES 41 

James. — You will confer a favor by becouuDg my 
pupil. I still prosecute my studies, but only occasionally 
and I want to learn of you those other things that are 
not studies. Please see your father to-morrow. 

Tom.— I will ; thank you, sir. [Picks up his hat.'] 
Good-night, sir. \_Exit.'] 

James. — Good-night, Tom. \_Looks after him.'] I 
will follow his bright example and do my whole duty 
better in future. 

[ Curtain falls.] 



KILLED WITH KINDNESS. 

Scene 1, — Two girls walking arm-in-arm. 

Abbt. — When mamma first proposed the idea, it 
struck me as rather absurd. 

Kate. — It still seems so to me, I must confess, Abby. 
What is the use to spend your poeket-mone}^ for people 
who can't appreciate 3''our kindness ? Whatever we do 
for Miss Fling, will be sure to give offence. If it's a 
goose, she'll wish it was a turke}^ ; if it's a turkey, she'll 
say, " Oh, you foolish Galathians, why didn't you bring 
a goose ?" 

Abby [laughing]. — Well, it's a matter of course that 
we shall not please her. But will it not be all the more 
generous in us to give, without expecting thanks? She 
is a poor, crazed old body, any way ; and you know we 
were sent to her school when we were mere babies. She 
taught us the alphabet — remember that. 

Kate — I shall not forget it. It was severe at the 
time, and now it's awful to remember. She taught us to 
read in two letters ; that was the extent of her accom- 
plishments. 

Abby. — Our parents were afraid our pronunciation 
would be ruined if we staid longer. Now she hasn't 
taught for years. She is p^r, and I pity her. 

Kate. — So do I. I pitj- her for being Mercy Ann 
Fling, a compound of crab-apples, cambric-needles and 
vinegar. 



42 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

Abby. — And for living alone. It must have been 
hard for her to lose the property her father left. 
Mamma says it affected her mind. 

Kate. — Dear me ! Did she ever have a mind ? It 
has dwindled away to a remnant, weak and small. 
Well, Abby, perhaps you are right. I'm willing to con- 
tribute the larger half of my pocket-money toward buy- 
ing the poor creature some holiday presents, if ihe 
other girls will do the same. 

Abby. — You dear old Kitty ; you'll give more than 
the rest of us, I dare say, in spite of your joking. 

Kate. — Don't flatter me, or I wont give a penny. 
Let's meet to-night and make our plans ; but we must 
look out, ever^^ one of us, for a good scolding. 

[ Curtain faMs."] 

Scene. 2. — Miss Fling^s parlor, poorly furnished but 
neat. Miss Fling, respectably but coarsely dressed, 
with spectacles, frizette and cap, sits alone, knitting ; 
her face bound up with a red silk handkerchief. 

Miss Fling. — TJgh, how the wind blows I If it comes 
from the north, it slams the blinds ; if it comes from the 
east, it settles in my teeth.' I'm worse off than Job, for 
I've nobody to speak to. Should think some of the 
neighbors might come in, when they know I'm alone. 
But they wont. Nobody remembers me now-a-days, 
not even my old scholars. If I hadn't been cheated 
out of my property, I should have been treated with 
attention. It would have been, "My dear Miss Fling," 
here, and " My dear Miss Fling,' there. I should have 
gone to the first houses to eat Christmas dinners, and 
none of these cold messes lying around in my cupboard. 
Oh, no ! But here I am, lone and 'lorn, suffering with 
ague, and nobody comes near me, to see if I'm alive or 
dead. \^A knock. Miss Fling settles her cap and shakes 
out her dress.^ I wish people would stay awa}^ ! I 
should have caught a nice little doze in about a minute ; 
but I never can have the hause to myself. [Goes to the 
door."] Good evening, Aboy Fletcher. Walk in, child. 

Abby. — Good evening. Miss Fling. [Sets a little box 
on the table- 1 Wish you a happy New Year. 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 43 

Miss Fling. — You needn't. I shall not have one, if 
you do wish it. \_Looks earnestly at the box.'] 

Abby. — And a hundred more, Miss Fling. 

Miss Fling. — Keep to the truth, child. You don't 
wish me a quarter of a hundred New Years ; or, if you 
do, you must have lost your senses. You didn't learn 
such morality at my school! 

Abby \smiling']. — I merely offer the compliments 
of the season to my old teacher. I hope she is not 
offended ? 

Miss Fling [angrr27?/].— Offended ? One would think, 
to hear you, that I had the temper of a North American 
tigress ! Such insinuations. Miss Abby, would never 
be thought of, if I had not been cheated out of my 
property. 

Abby [opens the box']. — My dear Miss Fling, I've 
been wishing to make you a little holiday present, and 
hope 3^oull please accept this cap. 

Miss Fling [taking it']. — Thank you. Miss Abby. 
Remarkable, I'm sure, that you should happen to re- 
member a poor lady like me, if I was 3^our first teacher. 
[Examines the ribbon.'] Purple, upon my word ! If 
there is a color I can't abide, it's purple. But of course 
you didn't know that, and I'm just as much obliged 
to you [Puts it on over her other cap ; looks in the 
mirror.] Too large over the ears, too small in the 
crown ; doesn't come far enough forward to meet my 
hair. Now, child, if you'd only taken the measure of 
my head ! 

Abby [smiling]. — Perhaps, dear madam, if you should 
remove that silk bandage 

[Knock. Miss Fling opens the door. Enter two girls.'\ 

Both Girls. — A happy New Year, Miss Fling, and 
many pleasant returns I 

Miss Fling. — Two more of my old scholars ! How 
did it happen ? [Offers chairs.] Please take seats, young 
ladies. If you had called on me thirt}^ years ago, I could 
have offered you hair-cloth and mahogany. [Sighs.] But 
since I've lost m}" property 

Louise [opening a bandbox]. — Miss Fling, I thought 
I would like to give you something as a token of my 



44 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

good-will. [Offers a velvet bonnet.'] I hope you will 
like this. It was made by my own milliner. 

Miss Fling [su^yrised']. — Why ! Thank you, Miss 
Louise. Really, this is quite unexpected. [^Turns it 
over on her hand.'] Some like black bonnets ; but, for 
m^^ part, I think they are only suitable for ladies in the 
down-hill of life, [^Girls look at one another, and smile. 
3Tiss Fling puts the bonnet over her cap, and it perches 
upon the back of her head.] Well, Miss Louise, [look- 
ing in the miry^or,] yovvv " own milliner" may be a 
French lady, and eat frogs every day of her life, but 
she doesn't know how to make a bonnet ! 

Louise. — Miss Fling, if you'll only remove that silk 
bandage and one of your caps- 

Miss Fling \_sha7yly]. — I've got the tickle^^oo in my 
cheeks, and it's likelj^ to stay there I Do you think I'll 
wear a little nut-shell that wont leave room for so much 
as this ? 

Louise. — But it's so thick ! 

Miss Fling [perching the bonnet on the summit of her 
head]. — Because I've caught cold in my ear; the tinny- 
pum is affected. Take home this furbelow, and see if 
your doll can get it on. [But at the same time she puts 
the bonnet iri the bandbox, and carefully sets it away in 
a closet.] 

Jane [offering a shawl']. — Please accept, Miss Fling, 
with the compliments of the season. 

Miss Fling. — Thank you, Jane. Why, really, this is 
most astonishing ! A shawl is better than nothing. I 
had a velvet cloak once, with eleo^ant frinoe. But I 
never exjicct to have a cloak of any kind again ; for 
when people lose their property 

Jane. — Excuse me. Miss Fling ; but I once heard 
you sa}^ you wouldn't take the gift of a cloak, so I ven- 
tured to offer a shawl. 

Miss Fling. — You might have heard me say I never 
would take the gift of a shawd. Those were m}^ words, 
Jane. [Putting it on.] It is the oldest looking gar- 
ment in the world, only suitable for a ladj^ in the down- 
hill of lif^. 

Jane [grieved]. — I'm so sorry. Miss Fling. 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 45 

Louise [^asidej. — She is delighted at heart. Never 
mind what she says, Jenny. 

[Knocks. 3Iiss Fling opens the door, still accoutred 
ill her new garments ; shawl put on awry ; bonnet 
perched on the organ of benevolence. Enter Kate.'] 

Kate. — Good-evening, Miss Fling. [_Shakef hands 
heartily.'] Ah, ha ! You are dressed cap-a-pie! The 
happiest of New Years to you, for ever! \_Offers to 
kiss her.] 

Miss Fling \_drawing back]. — Why, Kate ! 

Kate. — Oh ! but you taught me to read in two 
letters, Miss Fling. Can't you let me kiss you for 
New Year ? 

Miss Fling. — I was brought up never to kiss. My 
father was a gentleman of the old school. He consid- 
ered kissing a foolish use of the lips. 

Kate. — A fig for foolishness ! \_Seizes Miss Fling 
playfully by the shoulders ; kisses her several times.] 
There, there ! Now I've kissed you for Christmas an(^ 
New Year, and Fourth of July, and Thanksgiving ; 
and I'd like to see you help it. Miss Fling! 

Miss Fling. — Oh, you foolish Galathian ! Yo-ur 
manners are very uncultivated, and always were 
You'll ruin my beautiful new cap and shawl. 

Jane [aside]. — She calls the cap and shawl beautiful! 

Louise [aside]. — She has the same opinion of the 
bonnet. She likes it all the better for being in the 
height of fashion. 

Kate. — Now, Miss Fling, what a figure you are I 
What makes j-ou roll up your face in a blanket ? 

Miss Fling. — A handkerchief, child ! On account 
of tickleroo ; and also a pain in the ear. The tinnypum 
is affected. 

Kate. — No wonder. Miss Fling. You keep your 
room too cold. Please, Abb}^ put some more coal on, 
for we came to spend the evening sociall}'^ ; and this is 
ciirtainly a chill^^ reception. 

Miss Fling. — You were alwaj^s called a forward 

child, when you went to m}^ school. You used to creep 

under the table, and I couldn't make you come out. 

Vou haven't improved one speck, Kate G-ilman 1 The 

15 



46 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

idea of visitors touching my fire ! How do you kno\f 
I've any coal to spare ? 

Kate. — Oh ! Miss Fling, you like to be hospitable, 
you know you do. And now, please step into the next 
room ; for I've brought you a new dress, and long to 
see you try it on. Louise, will you light this little 
lamp for us ? 

l^Louise takes the lamp and looks r' und for matches.^ 

Miss Fling. — There is the match-safe, Louise, right 
under the clock. If it had been a bear, it would have 
bitten you. I shall be sure to catch my death o' cold, 
going out of this fire-room, Kate Gilman. But I sup- 
pose I must do as you say, you foolish child ! 

Kate. — To be sure, you must do as I say. And I 
am, as you playfully observe, a foolish child. 

\^JExeunt together.'] 

Abby. — Now is our time. 

\_Goes to the door, followed by the other two girls. 
They all return with baskets.'] 

Louise [spreading a white cloth on the table, and 
putting upon it a large frosted cake, ornamented']. — 
Behold a peace-offering for our amiable hostess I 

Abby [putting on pitch^^r and glasses]. — Here's some 
lemonade, which we will diink to the gentle lady's health. 

Jane [adding two handsome dishes of confectionery]. 
— And here are some goodies. May they sweeten her 
disposition ! 

Abby [suspending an arch with letters of green, "A 
Happy New Year,'^ over the table]. — She told me I 
needn't wish her a Happy New Year ; she shouldn't have 
one, if I did ; but what do you call this ? 

Louise. — Poor, unfortunate soul! [Setting lamps on 
iable and lighting them.] Let us give her a slight illu- 
mination for once. 

Abby. — And a little warmth. Don't you perceive a 
change in the atmosphere since I replenished the fire ? 
[Rubbing her hands.] 

Louise. — Yes, and Miss Fling's sad, frozen heart is 
thawing Do you observe it ? 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 47 

'Tane. — No wonder she gets cross living hx.re with 
her own gloomy thoughts for company. Oh, we forgot 
to set chairs. 

[^Places them around the table. Enter Miss Fling, 
attired in black silk, loith false front of curls, 
Abby^s cap on her head, her face free from 
bandage. Altogether her appearance is strikingly 
improved. She looks like a lady. Followed by 
Kate, who laughingly holds a lamp, and exhibits 
Miss Fling as if she were a painting. ^ 

Kate. — Look, girls ; here am I, Cinderella's god- 
mother ! I found my poor Cinderella sitting in the 
ashes ; I touched my wand and here she is all ready for 
the prince's ball. Make a courtesy, Miss Fling ! 

Miss Fling [with a really graceful though oldfash- 
ioned cou7^tesy~\. — Good-evening, young ladies ! You see 
Kate is one of the kind that will be obeyed. But what 
have we here ? [Looking at the table and holding up 
both hands']. 

Louise [putting shawl over Miss Fling^s shoulders']. — 
Oh, you have come to the prince's ball, you know 1 

[Offers chair. Miss Fling sits at the table, sur- 
rounded by the girls, who also seat themselves.] 

Miss Fling [smiling]. — Why, children, this is — why 
really this is quite unexpected ! It carries me back 
thirty years. It reminds me of the beautiful old times 
before I lost my property. 

[Draws herself up and looks very happy and proud. 
Kate as mistress of ceremonies is about to cut the 
cake, when a loud knocking is heard, also several 
shrill whistles.] 

Miss Fling [starting up in alarm]. — Oh! what has 
happened ! Run, girls, the house is afire ! Put me 
out! Open the door ! Put me out! Save my bonnet I 
In the closet ! Save that velvet bonnet ! 

[ The girls all laugh.] 

Kate. — Don't be alarmed, my dear Miss Fling. It's 
only the bojs — our brothers. They have come to add 
their n ite aj il gi'^e you some coal. 



48 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

Miss Fling [^setting back in her chair, putting 
handkerchief to her face as if undecided ivhether to cry 
or nof]. — It's first one thing, and then another. You 
girls and boys, take you both together, have given my 
nerves a pretty start ! 

Abby \_going to the door']. — As I have made such 
free use of your coal, Miss Fling, I suppose it's but 
fair that I should attend to the management of this. 
Now, where shall I tell the boys to have it put, if you 
please ? 

Miss Fling [laughing']. — Oh, you foolish Galathian I 
In the cellar, where do you think ? \_Bursts into tears.] 
You dear, blessed children ! Such a holiday as this 
I've not known for many a year — not since I lost my 
property. Come here, every soul of you, and let me 
kiss you. 

Kate [laughing]. — Such foolishness, Miss Fling 1 

[ They all surround their hostess in a group. Boys 
still knocking and whistling.] 

Miss Fling. — You've killed me with kindness. 
[ They all kiss her at once. Curtain falls.] 



THE SISTERS. 



This little piece is founded on a passage in the Colo- 
nial history of New England, in which it is related that 
a young girl who had been captured by the Indians, re- 
maining among them till she reached the age of woman- 
hood, became the wife of a young chief. Afterward, 
returning to visit the home of her infancy, she refused 
the earnest prayers of her parents and sisters to take 
up her abode with them, and with many tears, and ex- 
pressions of affection, she bade them farewell, and went 
back to the wigwam of her savage husband. The com- 
plete Indian costume of the mother and child may be 
made to contrast finely with a simple white dress of the 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 49 

colonial fashion, worn by a blue-eyed blonde, as tbc 
Enolish sister. 



Sister. — 

Go not, sweet sister, from our home of peace, 

Into those dark and gloomy wilds away ! 
Here, day b}^ day, our household joys increase: 

There, deeper darkness settles, cla}^ by day. 

Stay thou beside our hearth of warmth and light, 
And nurture this fair child in English lore, — 

And in our mother's faith, that made more brig^lit 
Those happy girlish da}- s, so bright before I 



'»" 



Indian Captiye. — 

Nay, gentle sister ! Deem not sadness dwells, 

Nor moral gloom, amidst our wigwams wild I 
This fair child lifts to heaven, at evening-tide. 

Hands pure as thine, and prayers as undefiled 

And thou, my absent lord ! believe not, thou, 
Thy wife will linger from thy side away I 

The sweetest sunshine crowns thy noble brow, 
My soul of home is in thy evening \a,y. 

I know thy tender trust is strong as death, 
Unchangeable as heaven, where'er thou art, 

And the sweet burden of that generous faith 
Lies safe, a shrined gem, upon my heart. 

I go, sweet sister ! yet believe thou well. 
No later love, how fond and close so e'er, 

Shall ever, from this forest-nurtured breast 
Unwind one bond to grateful memory dear. 

I go : but here, at thy beloved feet, 

I leave a portion of my heart's warm love ; 

And trust, in shame of narrow creeds, to greet 
Thee, and our mother, in that home aboA^e. 

Where thought of race or caste shall ne'er divide 

The pastor's daughter from the sachem's bride ! 



50 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

MANAGEMENT; OR, THE FOLLY OF 
FASHION. 

[The young girl perlbrmiiig in tliis dialogue will understand 
she is to be in party costume, without hoops beneath the 
calico dress, that the mere removal of hoops and dress may be 
quickly effected.] 



Scene 1. — Mrs. Snooks in a loose calico dress busily 
sweeping. Enter Mr. Snooks. 

Mr. Snooks. — Dear! dear! what a dust! You're 
always in a hurry. \^Takes the broom from her and 
leans it up carelessly.'] 

Mrs. Snooks. — Well, you're not ! 

Mr. Snooks [^slowly, with hands in his pockets']. — No, 
I'm waiting for something to turn up. 

Mrs. Snooks. — Waiting for something to tuini up, 
are you? I wish you'd turn something up, and sup- 
pose you begin with my broom. You ought to know, 
any man ought to know, it ruins a broom to set it that 
way, the brush end should always be up, so; [shows him] 
but to-morrow, Mr. Snooks, you'd come in and set that 
broom up the very same way, I'd be bound you would. 
\_She slips a bandana from his pocket and begins to 
dust the furniture, hurriedly.] 

Mr. Snooks. — Flurry, hurry, flurry! I hate this thing 
of flying around as though the world were a-fire ! \_Sits 
down and affects to read a newspaper, but looks from 
time to time at Mrs. Snooks.] 

Mrs. Snooks \_witii arms a-kimbo]. — If I were you I'd 
^.ot say fire — the world a-fire, indeed ! If 3'ou were to 
p^'ovide the kindling the world wouldn't burn up soon — 
that last oven wood you got was a superfine article — • 
hardly wilted the pies, and left the bread all dough — and 
a pretty fuss you made about that. Your paper is very 
interesting, I presume! [Approaching him, and looking 
over his shoulders.] 

Mr. Snooks [gruffly]. — Of course, it is ! 

Mrs. Snooks. — I thought so ; ah ! I was quite sure 
of it I f Turning it up she shows him he Ji ad held it upside 



STANDAED DIALOGUES 51 

down — a letter falls.'] Ah! there, I had almost forgot- 
ten ; this is our invitation to Mrs. Stucl^up's part}^ — the 
greatest affair of the season ! . 

Mr. Snooks. — Don't ! oh, don't say Mrs. Stuckup's 
party to me, I know wliat tliat means ! 

Mrs. Snooks. — What! 

Mr. Snooks. — Dresses and ribbons, feathers and flow- 
ers, and 

Mrs. Snooks. — Fiddlesticks ! 

Mr. Snooks. — Yes, fiddlestick, and worse than that, 
oh, far worse ! she'll want me to dance, and I wont ! I 
wont ! I wont ! 

Mrs. Snooks. — Oh ! Mr. Snooks, how you do go on 1 
Why you are one of Mrs. Stuckup's favorites; how she 
does admire your taste ! 

Mr. Snooks. — Yes. 

Mrs. Snooks. — And she will be pleased with the bon- 
net you'll choose for me ! 

Mr. Snooks. — Yes, she will admire the nice new bon- 
net you'll get out of me, by your blarney. I'll just tell 
5^ou I've no notion. [_She goes close up to him, looking 
very smiling.'] Oh, don't think it ! I feel a contempt 
for Mrs. Stuckup, and fashion, and you. \_He jumps up.] 

\_Mrs Snooks at the same time rises, and fakes the 
cap from his head.] 

Mr. Snooks. — Oh, I forgot to take my cap off. I 
didn't mean any disrespect to you. What on earth are 
you turning that cap around and around for ? and what 
does that delighted expression on your face mean ? 

Mrs. Snooks. - Oh, I have it now, Mr. Snooks ! 

Mr. Snooks. — Have, what? 

Mrs. Snooks. — Oh, such a capital idea; just let me 
have my own way, and I'll save you ten dollars, right 
straight 1 

Mr. Snooks. — No, you shan't have your own way, 
either — not a bit of it ! No, no I 

Mrs. Snooks. — Yes ! yes ! yes I 

Mr. Snooks. — No ! no ! n 

Mrs. Snooks. — Oh, to save ten dollars 1 [Lays her 
hand on his arm.] 

Mr. Snooks. — Well, how ? 



52 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

Mrs. Snooks. — Sit down, now, and listen to me 
You know you don't care about fashion ? 

Mr. Snooks. — No. 

Mrs. Snooks. — And I do! 

Mr. Snooks. — Yes ! oh, yes 

Mrs. Snooks. — Well, see here, now ; I'll put this piece 
of vejTet about here, and this feather I'll put here, and, 
now — oh, isn't it a love, a beauty ? Why, I declare, 'tis 
beyond my expectations! the effect is decidedly line. 
Ah I Mrs. Stuckup will admire that ! That, she will 
say, is some more of your husband's taste — his wonder- 
ful taste. 

Mr. Snooks. — Taste ! taste ! rather a bitter taste, I 
should think ! Woman ! woman ! what do you mean, 
woman ? 

Mrs. Snooks. — Don't stand there and call me woman, 
as if a woman was something you never saw before I 

Mr. Snooks. — You've taken my best hat ! what am I 
to do ? 

Mrs. Snooks [^soothingly, and producing an old and 
very shocking haf]. — Why, bless your head and your 
heart, man ! you don't care for fashion, and here, now, 
is my grandfather's hat, as good as new ; j^ou can wear 
that, I'm sure — you're very welcome to it. \_She puts 
it on his head']. There, now ! 

Mr. Snooks [walks to a mirror and surveys himself] 
• — Madam, it is not comfortable ! 

Mrs. Snooks. — Oh, you'll soon get used to it! 

Mr. Snooks. — No doubt ; well, I will. I will weai 
the concern provided you will in other respects dress 
according to my taste — my taste that is so lauded by 
Mrs. Stuckup. 

Mrs. Snooks. — Now 'tis time I were dressing. I must 
be going ; give me your suggestions, quickly ! 

Mr. Snooks. — Well, see here, I know 3'ou will, as 
you gave up the ten dollar bonnet to please me, you 
can't have any objections ; you'll just leave off these 
circular absurdities — this crinoline. 

Mrs. Snooks [with hands upraised in astonishment]. — 
Ah ! [then laughing]. Yes, yes, I will ; I will please you 
this once ; I'll be ready in a minute, yes, in half a min- 
ute. [She runs off laughing.] 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 53 

Mr. Snooks [^gazes on the hat, turning it in every post' 
Hon, and soliloquizes — itsing his watch]. — A minute, in- 
deed ! she'll keep me half an hour, she'll be sure to ; of 
course she wont ; I wish she would leave the hoops oif. 
But, yes, she shall, I can show my authority if I want 
to; she shall do it ; how I'll laugh to see her, and wont 
I enjoy madam Stuckup's surprise, I'll tell her that's 
some of my taste. That minute is rather lengthy, and 
1 know it would be useless to call " hurry," she's all 
hurry now, and will keep hurrying till I'm half crazy. 
Here, Mrs. Snooks I Mrs. Snooks! come hurry, hurry, 
we'll be too late ! 

\_Enter Mrs. Snook's in elegant party dress, but with- 
out hoops.] 

Mrs. Snooks. — Oh ! we will make all the greater sen- 
sation on our entrance. 

Mr. Snooks [^starting back aghast]. — Why ! What 
upon earth, you look like a broom-stick ! I'd be likely 
to go with you I You're a beauty ! 

Mrs. Snooks. — Thank you, 'tis many a long day 
since I received such a compliment I 

Mr. Snooks. — But Mrs. Snooks ! 

Mrs. Snooks. — What's wrong ? 

Mr. Snooks. — Mrs. Snooks, I can provide clothing 
enough for you to make a genteel appearance. My 
goodness ! how skimpy you do look ! 

Mrs. Snooks. — Why, Mr. Snooks, this is _your taste • 
here, put on your hat, Mrs. Stuckup will be delighted I 

Mr. Snooks. — Oh, 3^ou don't mean ! Oh, dear ! 

Mrs. Snooks. — Why, come on, I've learned to despise 
fashion, too 

Mr. Snooks. — Put one on, please, just one hoop. 

Mrs. Snooks. — Oh, it's too late now; come, come 
away, I will be the admired of all 

IShe hurries him along with her. As they leave the 
stage he says, ruefully : 

" If she will, she will, you ma^'^ depend on't, 
If she wont, she wont, and there's an end on't" 



54 STANDARD DIALOGUES 



COLUMBUS AT THE COURT OF SPAIN. 

CHARACTERS. 

Queen Isabella. Juan Perez de Marchena, 

Dona Beatrix de Bobadilla. Luis de St. Angel. 
King Ferdinand. Fernando de Talavera. 

Christopher Columbus. Pedro, a page. 

In the second scene, an Indian or two. 



[We leave the costumes of King, Queen and Page, and 
the court dresses of the rest, to the tastes of teachers and 
pupils. Prints in any school geography or history will suggest 
the styles of the times.] 

Scene 1. — King and Queen seated upon the thi^one, the 
Lady Beatrix near the Queen, and the Page in view. 
The Page announces ''Juan Perez.^^ 

Queen. — Grant him admittance. 

King. — Oh, Isabella! must we listen again to the wild 
schemes of this dreamer Columbus ? \_Perp,z eidering.'] 

Queen [^addressing the Xing']. — Our friend, Juan 
Perez. It is the part of wisdom, Ferdinand, to listen 
patiently and consider well of these weighty matters. 

King. — Well, Perez, go on ; we will hear the old story 
over again. 

Perez. — Will your gracious majesties listen to me 
once more. I would fain have you receive this remark- 
able man, Senor Christopher Columbus ; he is no idle 
dreamer, as you have supposed. 

King. — An enthusiast; a mad enthusiast! 

Page. — Don Fernando Talavera. 

Talavera [to Perez]. — What ! you here, Perez. To 
the King.] Oh, my King ! what is Spain coming to, 
when she talks of fitting out an expedition in search of 
a jack-o'-lantern ? 

Queen. — Nay, Fer Jinand ! we will hear Columbus : 
if it is folly, call it mine ; if it is glory, you. shall share it. 

Perez. — Oh, thank you, gentle queen. 

Talavera. — I beg your pardon, but this man Colum- 
bus ^s -aurely a little afiected up about here [touching his 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 65 

head']. Why the very children point to their foreheads 
as he passes. 

Queen. — Don Talavera, you are too severe ; now 
pause awhile, for I woul take a w^oman's counsel. 
Dona Beatrix, will you urge the claims of Columbus to 
me once more ? You are enthusiastic but not rash. 

King. — A woman and not rash. Oh ! 

Queen. — Dear Dona Beatrix, you must win the king 
over to our side. Proceed. 

Beatrix. — Oh, Isabella! Gracious queen and dear 
friend, something within my breast tells me that this 
man is intimately connected with the highest good and 
glory of Spain. Do not think of him as a vagrant 
dreamer, a nameless adventurer, hovering about courts 
for the sake of gaining honors and titles for himself; 
think rather of the sublimity of all that noble mind has 
conceived ; think of all that noble heart has suffered. 
For eighteen weary years he has toiled and hoped so 
bravely. Oh! there i.s a grandeur in such hope as his, 
and God will surely reward it. M3' queen, look not 
coldly upon such enterprises as his, calling them mere 
adventure. Know 3^ou not that Adventure is the child 
of Prosperity ? And now, in these most prosperous 
da3^s of Spain, it would be madness in 3^ou to let the 
banner-folds of another nation fly where yours dare not. 

Perez. — Oh, gracious sovereigns! did you know this 
man's modest}^ you would not dcubt his honesty; on 
our first meeting, 'twas but a little bread and water for 
his child he asked. 

Page. — Don Luis St. Angel. 

Queen. — Just in time ; most welcome. 

King po Talavera']. — We shall be overwhelmed. To 
the ladies this man is a host — sanguine as they. 

St. Angel. — Listen, j^our majesties, ere it is too late. 
If Senor Columbus is not at once patronized, he will 
quit the country, and this would, I believe, be an irre- 
parable loss to Spain. 

Why, oh ! why, when 3'ou have risked so much in so 
many perilous adventures, fear now to risk so little when 
the gain would be incalculable ? Consider, with its sue- 
.^.ess ho^ i^iich ma^^ be done toward extending your owi 



56 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

power and dorninion ; how much for the glory of God 
and the exaltation of the Church ! 

Page. — Senor Christopher Columbus. 

Talavera [aside to the king']. — In a court-dress, too , 
the last time I saw him he was threadbare and looked 
most forlorn. 

Queen. — And is this Columbus ? Welcome, most 
welcome to our presence ! Now reveal without hesita- 
tion what thy hopes are should we see proper to grant 
the wished-for outfit. 

Columbus. — Ah! your majesties; could you but know 
of the tumult of wild hope that agitates me now. But 
I know you will listen patiently. 

Eighteen weary 3^ears have I sought for the means of 
traversing the ocean to the westward, and every day of 
all those years have my convictions grown stronger that 
all my hope should yet be realized. Far away over the 
broad and blue Atlantic lie fair islands, whose trees 
beckon, whose breezes whisper me to come, whose clear 
gushing fountains alone can cool my spirit's fever. 
Most gracious sovereigns, these dreams were born in 
Heaven. The}^ have haunted me from early boyhood. 

King. — Columbus, do your own words declare you to 
be a dreamer, then ? 

Talavera. — This is enchanting ! Do you not think 
so, Dona Beatrix ? 

Dona Beatrix. — I do ! I believe this conviction is 
truly Heaveursent. I believe that far toward the sun- 
set flowers bloom, forests wave, and waters flow in sweet 
expectanc}^ of the coming of Columbus. 

Queen. — I am strangely moved. If it should be so I 
oh ! if it should be that the banners of Castile and Ara- 
gon should float over now unknown lands ; that there 
the heathen should turn from his idols and bow before 
the cross. 

St. Angel. — Then act, oh, beloved queen I upon the 
impulse of this present moment, or our great rivals, 
Portugal or France or England, may bear thither their 
flags. The present is the golden moment. I beg that 
you will, for your own sake and the honor of Spain, 
grant to Columbus what he asks. 

King. — But I would have reasons We have sent U- 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 57 

our learned and scientific men to investigate this rare 
project, and many of them considered to have sound 
judgment have pronounced in its favor. Wherefore ? 

Columbus. — I arrange this under three heads. First, 
the nature of things ; second, the authority of learned 
writers ; third, the reports of navigators. 

Talavera. — This is a new story. A moment ago, 
Islands far beyond nowhere were calling him. 

King. — Well, hear him. 

Columbus.— I can not doubt that the world is round — 

Talavera. — The man is crazy. 

Columbus. — Its shadow on the moon during an eclipse 
shows this, and there are man}^ other reasons for believ- 
ing it to be as other planets. Supposing the world to 
be round, it is not reasonable that hundreds of leagues 
should be but an expanse of ocean devoid of land. Fur- 
ther, there are many reports of navigators to confirm 
me in m}^ idea of land lying to the westward. The 
Canary and Cape Yerde Islands were once unknown ; 
why should we suppose them to be the boundaries of 
all knowledge we shall ever gain ? 

Perez. — Oh, let us aid him to explore the wonders 
and secrets of the universe ! 

St. Angel. — Here is a splendid opportunity to s*ur- 
pass all kings and princes. Let it not pass. Even his 
failure can not reflect disgrace upon you. 

Columbus, — But I shall not fail, my heart tells me I 
shall not ! I would that you could see how sometimes 
before my mental vision is unrolled the broad bright 
vista of the future. How wonderfully in God's provi- 
dence do the chariot wheels of human progress roil on ! 
The newly discovered art of printing has awakened the 
world on this side the water, and oft I dream it shall be 
carried to enlighten islands and continents afar. 

Talavera. — He talks of a world on this side the 
water, now I believe that I have more faith in that than 
the one on the other side. 

King. — Let him go on. What more, Columbus? 

Columbus. — There can never again be a dark age. 
Never shall the new light of knowledge spread abroad b\' 
the power of the printing press be trampled out. There 
will be no pause now for the career of science ; and should 



58 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

God will that all these high-born hopes of poor Colum- 
bus should fall to the ground, even then he would not 
quite despair; some other happier man will take up his 
theories, while the sphere of navigation will extend, and 
perhaps, yet, some great discoverer, unshackled b}^ the 
impediments that have beset my pathway, when he 
touches upon some beautiful sunset shores toward which 
this hand pointed him, will remember me — will weep for 
what I might have been ! 

Beatrix. — Oh, queen ! this must not be ! Would 
you could see with me the grandeur of this enterprise ! 
Tell me, could this man live the good life he has lived, 
struggling through poverty and ridicule, and wearing 
disappointments — yet, amid all, cling to this idea — it 
there was not truth in it ? 

Queen. — I know not what to think! 

King. — Great caution is necessary. 

St. Angel, — To you, my king, that word may have 
but a slight meaning ; but, oh ! I know, to Columbus, 
it is a word of almost heart-breaking import— y^ears, 
and years, and years — and then to speak in his presence 
of caution. 

Perez. — But never was man so endowed with pa- 
tience as this man ; he considers all else light in com- 
parison with this enterprise to which he has devoted 
himself. Dividing his scanty means with his aged 
father at Genoa, traveling on foot with thread-bare 
garments, with a hungr3^ child, pausing but to ask for 
a little bread and water. 

Talavera. — And recompensed j^our kindness with 
his wild stories. 

Perez. — Yes, more than recompensed. I received his 
opinions with unwavering faith. I wish, for his sake, 
that I were king. 

King, — A common wish, but for a most uncommon 
reason, to benfit another. 

Beatrix. — Good Perez, I thank you for your kind- 
ness to Columbus, and trust that God will rewaid you 
for it. Surely, after death, jow will be exalted into a 
white-winged angel of Hope. 

Queen. — Go on, Columbus, your talk is pleasant in 






STANDARD DIALOGUES 59 

my ear, whether it be of your dreams or of youi 
reasons. 

Columbus. — Oh ! most indulgent queen ! listen, then, 
a little longer ! It must be that there is land lying to- 
ward the sunset. Have you not heard how on the coast 
of the Cape Yerde Islands two men were cast up by the 
waves of the Atlantic, differing both in color and feature 
from any known race ? also, a cane curiously wrought, but 
bearing no mark of iron instruments ? Trunks of strange 
trees have been found far out at sea, and unknown reeds 
and grasses. These islands, or this land, then, awaii 
discovery; and now, that you have conquered the xVIoors. 
why not turn 3^our attention to a more important expe- 
dition than you have 3'et fitted out? 

Queen. — Ah ! why ? 

King. — Why has not your own country, Genoa, hear- 
kened to you ? 

Columbus. — I grieve to sa}^ that my own land, the 
republic of Genoa, is now in a languishing condition, 
and can not aid me. 

Queen. — What do you say, Ferdinand ? 

King. — Say ! Wh}^ now that we have conquered the 
Moors, and are acknowledged one of the first, if not the 
first power in Europe, 3'ou can busy yourself among 
your jewels — and 

Queen. — My jewels ! I— must I plaj* with baubles, 
while the richer jewels of a ro3'al mind are strewn to 
the winds, and great hopes perish, and heathen souls are 
shi I) wrecked ? 

King. — After years of the turmoil of war the natioD 
needs rest. 

Perez. — Idleness is the file that wears away pros 
perity, be it ever so great. 

St. Angel. — Hope on, Columbus. What though you 
meet not here the aid 3'ou ask? A recent letter from the 
King of Portugal invites 3^our return ; and the learned 
men of France bend, even now, o'er these maps and 
charts. Conviction must grow to certainty as the3^ gaze. 
Oh, Isabella, Ferdinand, Beatrix, this is no dream ! Co- 
lumbus, why linger ? Th3' life is passing ; waste not 
one moment more ; come away — come away. I will go 



60 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

with you to France, or return with you to Portugal ; of 
we will set sail for distaut England. 

Beatrix. — Oh, Isabella, before it is too late, con- 
sider — can you, will you, allow all this honor, glory, 
and power, now within your grasp, to pass to another ? 
Ah ! I sigh to think how much less worthy that other 
sovereign will be than my own. 

St. Angel. — We ask so little — but three small vessels. 
Let us away ! The enterprise promises too much- to be 
rejected elsewhere, and perchance English sails will first 
whiten some glad far-distant waters, while the lazy Span- 
iard hovers about his own shores, as snails coil in their 
shell tenements, that heed not and know not of aught 
else. We must go! 

Perez. — May all good angels attend you ; and I and 
the good brothers will care for your child. 

Talavera. — TuaL everlasting child ; give it a little 
bread and water ! 

St. Angel. — Time passes. 

Queen. — I echo it, time passes ! but oh, Columbus, 
think you, if you do undertake this voyage, this ventur- 
ing upon the unknown deep, that you will certainly find 
the wished-for islands ? Perchance they exist only in 
your own imagination — and you mip^ht go drifting, drift- 
ing, drifting, the sport of winds and waves for years. 

Columbus. — One hour, with Heaven's blessing resting 
on it, is more than time enough to find a world ! 

King. — I would tha' world were found. 

Queen. — It shall b^, Heaven willing, for I will pledge 
my royal jewels that he may go. 

Beatrix. — 1 am too happy 1 

King. — My good Isabella. 

Columbus. — ^I have not lived in vain ; I could weep 
like a child ! 

St. Angel. — I could laugh, and leap and shout like a 
boy ! 

Perez. — The saints be praised I 

Talavera. — I have nothing to say, so say nothing. 

Queen [to Page']. — Bring me my casket of most pre- 
cious jewels. [ To Beatrix.'] — Take thou the brightest 
jewel from my crown; and undo this necklace, worn 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 61 

since ciiildhood. My soul FiOw seems flooded with the 
grandeur of this enterprise. [Here the Page returns.'\ 

Beatrix. — But pause ; this is the jewel of jewels in a 
crown of Castile ! and this lovely necklace — can they 
not be saved ? 

QxTEEN. — Nay, nay, they charm me no longer. Co- 
lumbus, now I feel that thy hopes shall be realized. 
Noble, patient, long-suffering one, forgive our tardiness. 
I feel that you will give to Spain her crowning triumph. 

King. — Columbus, I will hope as the Queen does, and 
shall ever feel grateful that you have conferred upon us 
the honor of giving patronage to this great scheme. 
May it succeed ! 

Beatrix. — Fair be the winds, and bright the skies, 
and calm the waves for thee, Columbus. May many a 
strange fl.ower bloom in thy pathway. May sweetest 
song-birds cheer thee, and mayest thou drink of the 
waves of glad fountains, and rest in the shadow of trees 
even lovelier than those of Andalusia. 

Queen. — And there will the blessed Cross go, and the 
story of the dear Redeemer. 

Columbus. — Yes, lovely Queen, there shall our blessed 
religion go ; and ever, next to my love for it, will I cher- 
ish fond memories of thee. All the uncertainty, all the 
danger before me, are as nothing in this proud and 
happy hour. Now, indeed, under this new-born rainbow 
of hope, does the future stand arra3^ed in dazzling sheen 
I dream that there may, come a time when even all Eu 
rope may be a field too narrow for the proud step of 
Freedom ; that an enlightenment far, far beyond what 
earth has jei known, may rise and stream over lands 
that lie toward the setting sun. Now I have almost 
too much, for Isabella, for Ferdinand, for Spain, for 
the future, for the great interests of humanity, for 
these dear friends, and for the voice within my own 
breast, that ridicule, neglect, poverty and time could 
never silence — and for the religion of .our fathers. 
Now, for the first time, I feel it all in its awful splen- 
dor, and it almost overcomes me — St. Angel, Dona Bea- 
tnx, my Queen ! 

King. — I will trust that all is well ! 

Perez — I go to tell the good news to the Brothers I 
16 



62 STAND AED DIALOGUES 

Talavera. — There is no mistake ; the man is crazy 

[ Curtain falls.J 

Scene 2. — King and queen seated, enter Dona Beatrix. 

Beatrix. — This is a most glorious day for Spain! 
the joy bells ring, and the shouts of glad thousands 
tremble upon the air ! He has returned ! our brightest 
anticipations have been more than realized ! Thine is a 
glorious reign, and long to be remembered in history ! 
Spain stands first amongst Christian nations ! she has 
now ascended the proudest heights of triumph !• — 

And now she may rest with her banners furled, 
On the heights of Fame she hath found a world ! 
And what hath she more to do ? 

[_Enter Page, announcing "Don Talavera.^'''] 

Talavera. — The procession is coming this way, all 
sorts of gew-gaws along, and some strange red men, 
too. A terrble fuss in the streets, all the ladies at the 
windows. I used to think Columbus crazy, now every 
body else seems to be, 

[^Page announces '^Father Perez.''^'] 

Perez. — A happy contrast this, to our last reception 
here, then fears were mingled with our hopes, now our 
highest, highest hopes, are lost in perfect triumph! 
Now, Columbus comes surrounded by the flower of 
Spain's chivalry, and receives the homage of the bravest 
and fairest. 

Queen. — This is the triumph hour of Isabella's life ! 
This day shall furnish the greatest theme for the 
greatest painter ! the noblest subject for the noblest 
poet, for many, many a year to come. 

King. — I am lost in astonishment and overwhelmed 
with delight ! This wonderful man ! this great Colum- 
bus ! why kings are insignificant by his side ! 1 can 
scarcel}^ realize now, that he is the same follower of the 
court, who from j^ear to year pressed upon us, what we, 
with our more limited ideas, conceived to be but wild 
schemes. Oh, Perez ! your goodness is rewarded now^ ! 

Perez — Aye, at last. It seems to me but yesterday, 
he came to our convent gate a poor, unknown stranger, 
and asl^ed "A little bread and water for his child !" 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 63 

ALAVERA.^ — !>h, preserve me ! must I hear that 
again ? 

\_Page announces, "Senor Columbus, Don Louis St. An- 
gel, and an Indian, a real Indian /"] 

Columbus. — My noble sovereigns, all the honor is 
yours, I was but the humble instrument in the hands of 
God, of giving to Castile and Leon a New World ! 

St. Angel. — Not Portugal, not France, not England, 
to have this triumph, but it is for Spain, only for Spain, 
oh ! how wild are my transports 1 

Queen. — Heaven has smiled upon our efforts, and 
oh, St Angel ! how shall we thank you enough ? It was 
your eloquence, that persuaded our doubting hearts ! 
You, too, Beatrix, had your own high part in this, and 
Perez, your honest friendship is rewarded now, and my 
noble Indian friend is welcome. Pedro, a chair for 
Columbus. 

Beatrix. — I saw all this long ago ; I knew these glad 
tidings would one day thrill through Spain. St. Angel, 
we are surely scarce less happy than Columbus. 

St. Angel. — To me, also, was this day revealed — I 
knew it must come ; I looked on it as a certainty. 

Talavera— How apt is every son and daughter of 
Adam to greet all events, great and small, with " There, 
I knew it !" 

Queen. — Speak not lightly, now, my noble Talavera ; 
the country has been discovered and gold and gems 
brought thence ; now la}^ aside your caution, and rejoice 
with us. 

King. — Yes, Talavera, we have nothing more to risk. 
I deem myself a good king, but acknowledge Isabella a 
better queen. 

Talavera. — I do rejoice with you ; but look you now, 
when Columbus sailed right in the direction of this 
land, how could he help finding it ? It was an easy 
matter enough ; give me ships and men, and I'll go 
myself. 

Columbus. — Will your majesty give me an egg? 

Queen. — An egg? 

Columbus. — Yes, only an egg. I wish to favor Tala* 
vera with a trifling illustration of his position. 



64 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

Queen \to page]. — Pedro, bring Senor Columbus an 
egg. 

King. — What can he want with an egg ? 

Queen. — What, Ferdinand I have you cariosity about 
3uch a trifle ? 

King. — Not much ! 

Queen. — Tell us, oh Columbus, somewhat of that far 
wondrous heathen land ? 

Beatrix — Oh, yes ! we long to hear of it. 

Columbus. — Words can not paint its glories, its won- 
ders, and its beauties. The waves are as pure as 
crystal, the flowers are of indescribable beaut}^, the 
trees are glorious to behold ! Ah, Beatrix, your wishes 
followed me there. The inhabitants are simple as chil- 
dren. Their lives beautiful as a dream of romance. 
And, lovely queen, there was not an hour that I did not 
think of and bless you. [_Enter page with an egg.] 

King. — The egg ! Talavera, favor us again with your 
last remark, that I may feel the full force of this illus- 
tration. 

Talavera. — I said 'twas an easy matter to reach 
this land ; give me men and ships and I'll go. 

[JETere Columbus takes the egg, and asks Talavera, 
St. Angel, and Perez to balance it — all try vainly.] 

King. — Here, I'll tr}^, too. I never thought of such a 
thing before, and have seen a thousand eggs. {^Trying, 
he goes on.] Why, I can't. How, now, Columbus ! 
why I can't do it, and I'm a king ; it looks as though it 
ought to be done. I wonder if the Kings of England, 
France, or Portugal can do this. Such a contrar}'' egg ! 
yet it looks like all others. I'd like to do this ! who 
ever did ? Here, Isabella, j^ou ma}'^ try ; you, too, 
Beatrix ; curiosity will surely prompt you ladies to do 
your utmost. \_Both try in vain.] 

Queen. — Curiosit}^, patience, perseverance, all are 
vain I 

King. — I don't believe any body can do it. 

Talavera. — Who would want to ? 

St. Angel. — Columbus, do balance this egg, I am 
sure you can. 

\ Columbus taking the egg, balances it by striking ii 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 65 

upon the table, with just force enough to break the 
shell slightly at the small end, when it stands 
firmly.'] 
Talavera. — Any body could do it that way I 
King. — Ha, ha, ha. Yes, since Columbus has shown 
you how I Bravo ! bravo ! 
Perez. — Most excellent ! 
St. Angel. — Always right ! 
Beatrix. — How charming ! 

Queen. — The world contains but one Columbus ! 
Talavera [offering his hand to Columbus, who takes 
it]. — Now I am heartily your friend 1 



THE SILVER DOLLAR. 

CHARACTERS. 

Harry Seetin. Mr. Berkley. 

A Flower Girl, afterwards Mrs. Berkley. 



Scene 1. — A counting-house. Harry Seetin discovered 
with newspaper in his hand. 

Harry. — Not much doing to-day — that's certain! 
Well, if I just had the time and the money to spare I'd 
go to hear Professor Baker lecture to-night, but I must 
be here until nine o'clock, and besides this, mj' funds are 
rather low, and I will have to be economical. I wonder 
if Mr. Patterson isn't going to raise my wages soon 
I think it is high time he would if he is going to live up 
to his promise. If he doesn't I'll have to seek employ- 
ment elsewhere. Hello ! who comes here ? 

[Enter Eliza, a little girl, with a basket of bouquets.] 

Eliza. — Please sir, wont you buy a bouquet ? 

Harry. — Bouquet ? No ! What do I want with a 
bouquet ? I'm sure I've got no fair lady friend, to pre- 
sent it to, and, as for mj^self, I either haven't the time to 
admire bouquets, or else I haven't' any taste. No, little 
girl, I don't want a bouquet. 

Eliza. — But please sir, do buy one. I've been trying 



66 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

to sell all da}^ and no one cares any thing for tliem. 
Please buy one, sir, for we need money very much. lAl- 
most crying.'] 

Harry. — Well, well, don't cry little girl. You say 
we need money very much. Whom besides yourself do 
you support by selling bouquets ? 

Eliza. — My mother, sir ; and she has been very sick 
for a long time and I can scarcely make enough to keep 
ourselves alive and from being turned out of doors b;y 
the landlord. 

Harry. — Well, I don't want a bouquet, but here's a 
dollar \huncls money']; take it, and may you soon see 
better times ! 

Eliza. — Oh, thank j^ou, sir, I will remember you as 
long as I live, and may God bless you and 

Harry. — Oh, never mind, little girl — it's nothing. 
Run home to your poor sick mother and be kind to her. 

Eliza. — Oh, you are a kind man and I wish there 
were more like you in the world. \_Exit Eliza.] 

Harry. — There's another dollar gone. Well, that cuts 
off my supply of cigars for awhile, but I don't care. 
Mother used to tell me to cast my bread upon the waters 
and after many daj^s I would receive it. Well, I've cast 
a dollar away, or rather, I've cast a good many cigars 
awa3^ and bestowed a dollar on a poor little girl. Won- 
der if 'twill ever return. I don't know why it is that 
all the poor little girls come to me for money and never 
ask Mr. Patterson. I'm sure he is a thousand times 
ablei to give than I am. Well, I don't regret giving 
this little girl the dollar for she certain!}^ is honest — I'm 
sure of that ; and then her mother is sick, and they are 
very poor. I wish I had monej^ enough to place all the 
poor people in the world in comfortable circumstances, 
and make myself a little more comfortable too. 
\_Gurtain falls.] 

Scene 2. — Boom in Mr. Berlcley^s house. Time, even 
ing. Mr. and 3Irs. Berkley discovered. Ten years 
are supposed to have elapsed between first and second 
scenes. 
Mrs. Berkley. — Who was that man who was in here 

R »bo"^ time ago ? 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 67 

Mr. Berkley. — His name is Seetiii — Harry Seetin, I 
believe. He came to apply for the situation of book- 
keeper. He said he had been at the store and found it 
closed and thought he would call here. 

Mrs. B. — Did you give him the situation ? 

Mr. B. — No, I didn't promise it to him, but told him 
1,0 call at the store to-morrow and I would give him an 
answer. He makes a very poor mouth of it. He says 
his wife has been sick for some time, and that his two 
little children have barely enough to keep them alive. 
One doesn't know whether to believe half the stories one 
hears or not. However, this man looks honest enough, 
and from his appearance I know he hasn't a very great 
share of this world's goods. I told him to call at the 
store to-morrow and I would give him an answer. 

Mrs. B. — Give him the situation. I ask it as a favor. 

Mr. B. — And why, my love, do you take such an in- 
terest in the man ? 

Mrs. B. — I will tell you. You know that ten years 
ago, and long before you married me, I was very poor. I 
was out one day trying to sell bouquets to make some- 
thing with which to purchase some delicacy for my 
mother, who was very sick. I could not sell a single 
bouquet. No person would buy. They would not even 
look at them. I went into Mr. Patterson's store and 
found this young man there and asked him to buy: He 
replied that he didn't want a bouquet — that he didn't 
care any thing for them, but he gave me a silver dollar. 
He would hardly let me thank him for it ; and I ran 
home ver}^ happy. I have seen Mr. Seetin several times 
since, but not since we were married until this evening, 
and never dreamed that he was in such straightened 
circumstances. When I saw him go out of the door I 
kxiew him to be the same person who had befriended me 
ten years ago, and now, as a favor, T ask that you give 
him the situation. 

Mr B. — Most assuredly shall he have the situation. 
There are two other applicants who come with rather 
better recommendations than does Mr. Seetin, but he 
shall have the preference. And, my dear, you are very 
right to remember those who were kind to you long ago, 
when y ^u were poor and when 3'ou iieeded kindness most 



68 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

I will write a note to Mr. Seetin this evening and send with 
Thomas, telling him he can have the situation. Fortu- 
nately he left his address with me. 

Mrs. B. — You need not go to so much trouble, Wil- 
liam. You know he will call at the store to-morrow. 

Mr. B. — I know ; but, somebody has said that delaj'S 
are dangerous, and it's true. From what Mr. Seetin 
said, I know that he and his family are very much in 
want. And, my dear here is a one hundred dollar note 
[h,anding money']. You shall give that to him — a dollar 
for every cent he gave you — and write him a note stating 
that it is given in grateful remembrance of the silver 
dollar bestowed on a poor little girl ten years ago. 
[ Curtain falls.] 



OIL ON THE BRAIN. 

CHARACTERS. 

Squire Hopeful, a retired alderman in moderate circumstances 

Samuel Balmoral, a dry goods clerk. 

Mr. Simon Fogy, his uncle, a garrulous church deacon. 

Bob, small son of the squire. 

Fred, his cousin. 

Caroline, daughter of the squire, and loved by Samuel. 

Miss Arabella, her maiden aunt. 



\^Enter Simon Foyy and his nephew.] 
Simon. — If you do, you're a fool, that's alL 
Samuel. — Why, uncle, I see no harm in trying ; be- 
sides, how can I hope to support Caroline properly, situ- 
ated as I am. I have now a chance to become, it may 
be, wealthy; at least to greatly improve m^^ present con- 
dition. I am assured by those, who are well informed, 
that this is an excellent company. 

Simon. — Excellent nonsense I Now mark what I tell 
you — no good will ever arise from this oil speculation. 
I have been opposed to it from the first, and I have had 
no reason to change iny oi)inion. It is nothing more 
uoi less than ^ambling. 



STANDAKD DIALOGUES 69 

SiMTTEL. — Uncle, I shall beg leave to differ from you. 
You know Shakspeare says, " There is a tide in the 
affairs of men, which, taken at the flood, leads on to for- 
tune." 

Simon. — I am pretty sure the bard did not allude to 
Oil Creek. 

Samuel. — Well, just as you please. I have decided 
to invest. [Uxit.'] 

Simon. — It seems as if every one had gone crazj^ ! 
From morning until night, I hear nothing but oil ! oil ! 
OIL ! on the streets, in the cars, at home, abroad, in 
fact everywhere, it is the only theme of conversation. I 
have become so sick of the subject that I hate to hear 
the word oil mentioned. 

[^Enter squire with papers in his hand.'\ 

Simon. — Good-morning, squire ; what have you there ? 

Squire. — Something of importance, I assure you. 
We are about to organize an oil company, offering ex- 
cellent inducements to those who, like you and me, have 
but a small capital and wish to see it increased. I 
thought that 3^ou, being a particular friend of mine, 
should be informed of the chance before it became gen- 
erally known. Just look at this prospectus ! 

Simon [throwing the pajDer aside^. — Don't talk to me 
of oil companies and the ruinous speculation which they 
cause ! I am opposed to it, sir ; conscientiously and re- 
ligiously opposed to it. I wouldn't invest a dime in 
any of your boasted companies ; they are swindles, sir, 
from beginning to end. 

Squire [aside']. — What a queer old grampus he is. 
Well, Simon ! if I can not induce you to embrace the 
present opportunity and make your fortune I must bid 
you good-morning. [Exit.] 

Simon. — I, Simon Fog}^ deacon of a church, invest in 
oil ! that's a pretty idea ! The good book says : '' Lay 
Dot up for 3^ourselves treasures on earth," and if I do, 
it shall be something more secure than coal oil. Bah 1 
it makes me sick to think of it. 

[Enter Caroline, singing:"] 

" And every one is troubled with 
Oil on the brain." 



70 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

Simon. — I repel the insinuation with scorn ; I, foi 
one, remain uncontaminated by the prevailing reckless 
infatuation, 

Caroline. — Why, is it possible, Mr. Fogy ! that you 
have failed to take the necessary steps to enrich your- 
self, at a time when fortunes are made in a day, and 
millionaires are almost as plentiful as beggars ! But 
see, what a splendid piece of music Mr. Balmoral has 
given me I 

Simon. — A most miserable subject at any rate. 

Caroline. — Do you really think so ? I don't ; and 
if 3^ou will come and hear me play it, perhaps, you will 
think differently. Well ! if you wont I must go alone. 

Simon. — Now, one might think that women and girls 
would be exempt from such foolishness ; but, alas I I'm 
afraid it is not the case. Ah I here comes the charming 
Miss Arabella. [Enter Miss Arabella.'] 

Simon. — Pleasant morning, ma'am. 

Arabella. — Very pleasant, indeed, Mr. Fogy. Have 
you seen the Squire this morning ? 

Simon. — Yes, ma'am, and am sorry to hear from his 
own lips that he has been foolish enough to put his 
money into oil stocks. 

Arabella. — He always was a fool as far as money 
was concerned. 

Simon. — What could have prompted him to take so 
rash a step ? 

Arabella. — I really can not tell. I suppose he be- 
lieves it will make a wealthy man of him • but in my 
opinion, he will never realize a single cent of the money 
he has been dunce enough to invest. 

Simon. — I agree with you on that point. 

Arabella. — You can not imagine, Mr. Fogy, how 
changed he has become. Now, last night, for instance, 
instead of coming home at the proper time, as a decent 
man should do, he staid away until far after tea time, 
and when he did come, he brought with him a great 
crowd of men, and insisted on us getting supper for 
them. After they had stuffed themselves full of every 
thing eatable in the house, they all marched into the 
best room ; and there they sat and smoked their filthy 



STANDAKD DIALOGUES 71 

tobacco, and talked of oil and stocks, and flowing-wells 
and certificates, till my head reeled, and it required a 
pretty good dose of the old legitimate castor oil to set 
me right again. 

Simon. — In my opinion the world has gone mad, and 
not content with performing its daily and annual revo- 
lutions in the customary manner, has conceived the 
idea of greasing its axis and orbit, in order to move 
more expeditiously, and with less effort. 

Arabella. — Yery true ! very true ! ! But who have 
we here ? [^Enter Fred and Bob, singing.'] 

Bob. — My dear Aunt Bell, did 3^ou never hear tell, of 
the man that drowned himself in a fifty barrel well ? 

Fred. — When he found out his stocks he couldn't 
sell. lExit.'] 

Arabella. — Why, even the children seem to have 
caught the infection ! \_Enter Caroline hastily.] 

Caroline.^ — Have you heard the news ? 

Arabella. — No ! what is it ? 

Caroline. — I don't know as I can tell you properly, 
but papa's compau}^ has, as he says, "struck oil," and 
the yield is so great, that the stock has risen — I don't 
know how much and he is going to sell his shares im- 
mediately. 

Arabella. — I don't believe a word of it I 

Simon. — Nor I, either. ^Enter Samuel.] 

Samijel. — Now, my dear Caroline, congratulate me. 

The stock which I bought, has, in this short time, risen 

60 much per share, that I have been induced to sell, and 

have realized again far beyond my greatest expectations. 

• Caroline. — I am so glad ! \_Enter Squire.] 

Squire. — Hurrah ! Our fortunes are made, Arabella I 
1 knew money was to be made out of this oil business 
Why, how are you, Sam ? I hear that you, too, have been 
successful ? 

Sam. — It is indeed true, and through the beneficial 
influence of such success, I am enabled to ask you for 
the hand of your daughter, without experiencing the 
disagreeable sensation of being unable to support lier 

Squire. — I admire your candor, Sam — ^j'ou shal. 
have her with all my heart. \_Joining their hands.'} 
May God bless you both ! 



72 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

\^Exit all hut Miss Arabella and Simon.'] 

Arabella — I believe there is some substance in this 
oil speculation after all, Mr. Fogy. 

Simon. — It begins to look so, indeed ; and my dear 
Arabe lai, as we have just seen, success in love followed 
fast success in the oil business. May I not hope, then, 
in case similar good fortune should fall to mj^ lot, that 
the lovely Miss Arabella will accept the proffered heart 
and hand of Simon Fogy ? May I not ? do not say no. 
[Affectedly. 2 

Arabella [with emotion']. — There is no refusing you, 
Simon! [FalU into his arms.] 

Simon. — It's oil right ; never venture never win. As 
far as oil's concerned, I'm in. [Uxit.] 



GOING TO BE AN ORATOR. 

Scene. — Two boys meeting; one with Webster^ s large 
dictionary under his arm. 

Harry, — Halloo, John I where are you going with 
that big book ? 

John. — I'm going to return it to Professor Niles, of 
whom I borrowed it. 

Harry. — What is it ? 

John. — Webster's unabridged vocabulary of the En- 
glish language. 

Harry. — What have you been doing with it ? 

John. — Wh}^, you see, I intend to be a public orator, 
and I wish to insert some large words occasionallj'', to 
make my oration sound more grand and eloquent. 

Harry. — Grandiloquent, you mean. I hope 3^ou will 
let me know when you deliver your maiden speech, for I 
wouldn't miss hearing it for considerable. 

John. — 1 see you are making fun of me, Harry. But 
you shall hear my maiden speech, and be made to ac- 
knowledge its merits. 

Harry. — I hope I am always willing to acknowledge 
t7^ue meritf John ; but how long have you been searching 
th« dictionary for big words ? 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 7S 

John. — Oh ! about three weeks ; and I assni-e 3^011 1 
have a fine catalogue of them all cut and dried for my 
advanta2:e. 

Harry. — They iai2iy prove to your disadvantage ; but 
come, here you have been studying big words for three 
weeks, and I believe that I can use as many as you can, 
now! 

John. — Well, I'll try you, my boy ! Now, when I say 
some high sounding word or phrase, you see if you can 
get one to match it, will you ? 

Harry. — Yes ; go ahead I 

John. — Harry. — 

Demagogue, Pedagogue. 

Exaggerate, Refrigerate. 

Levigation, Amalgamation. 

Aristocratic, Epigrammatic. 

Antagonism, Anachronism. 

Ecclesiastical, Euthusiastical. 

Latitudinarian, Uniformitarian. 

Uncharacteristically, Ineffervescibility. 

Vicissitudinary, Usufructuary. 

Indiscrimination, Individualization. 

Valculiferous, Antiomniferous. 

Transubstantiate, Pulmonibranciate. 

American institutions, Voluntary contributions. 

Evangelical denominations, Multitudinous associations 
John. — The ebon opaqueness of the nocturnal hour. 
Harry. — The concentrated quintessence of every thing sour. 

John [^scratches his head, and apparently tries to think 
of other examples']. — Why, Harry, I guess you've been 
picking big words out of the dictionary, too. Are you 
preparing yourself for an orator ? 

Harry. — Not at all ; my inclinations run in a differ- 
ent direction. But do you intend to devote your life to 
speechifying ? 

John. — To be sure I do. 

Harry. — Well, ma}^ I inquire to what subject you in- 
tend chiefly to apph^ your eloquence ? 

John. — Oh! I shall not limit myself to any particular 
subject, but take up whatever is most popular, and dropit 
as soon as I find something better calculated to win 
public applause. I have made up ray mind to create a 
eensatioy in the world, and I am determined to do it. 



74 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

I shall yet see the day that my praises are in every man'a 
mouth. 

Harry. — Well, that would be very pleasant, to be 
sure, provided you merit such adultation 

John [interrupting him]. — Of course I shall merit 
it. I shall study eloquence and elegance until I become 
perfectly irresistible. 

Harry. — But what is your primary object, John ? 
You surely have some purer, nobler motive than self- 
aggrandizement ? 

John. — Why — why — I don't know as I understand 
what you mean. What do you think should be my pri- 
mary object, as you call it? 

Harry. — I think the first object in the life of every 
person should be to do good. 

John. — Pshaw, Harry ! you know as well as I do, 
that the world is full of persons who take all the respon- 
sibility of doing good upon themselves ; besides, 1 
should have to give up my darling project of becoming 
an oratoi, if I attempt to play the philanthropist. 
'^- Harry. — By no means, John ; you could so combine 
the orator and philanthropist as to form a most desira- 
ble character, instead of pursuing the useless, selfish 
career you have marked out for yourself. 

John. — Convince me of that if you can. 

Harry. — Well, then, let your first object be to benefit 
others ; next, remember that every subject has two sides ; 
and instead of advocating the most popular side and 
running after strange gods, and still stranger whims and 
theories, study carefully which side is right, and then 
oring all your eloquent artillery against the opposing 
side ; devote yourself to the redress of real grievances ; 
bravely battle for the right ; and you will not be unde- 
serving the praise that will surel3^ attend you. 

John. — Why, Harry, you are really growing eloquent^ 
and I aih half inclined to adopt your suggestions, and 
try to live for something high and noble. 

Harry. — If you should, the world might be both wisei 
and better for your having lived in it. 

John. — Well, I will think of it and tell you my decio 
Bion when we meet again. Good-morning I 

Harry. — Good-morning, sir. 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 75 

QUACKERY. 

CHARACTERS. 
Dr. Pedanticus. Mike Miligan, an Irishmaa 



Scene. — A doctor^s office. Dr. Pedanticus putting viaU 
in his saddle-bags. Enter Mike. 

Mike. — Good-mornin' docthur. 

Pr. — Good-morning, Mike. Take a chair. \^Mike sits 
doivn.^ Well, Mike, how is your health ? 

Mike. — Oh, bad enough, docthur. I'm afeard I'm 
a-goin' to have the blood}" [^oo as in lookli cholera, what's 
on it's way across the say. Oh, docthur, caiiH you pre- 
vint me from havin' the bloody disase ? Can't you, 
docthur ? say now, sure you can. 

Dr. — Well, Mike, what induces j^ou to onceive the 
idea that you are about to be visited with an attack of 
the terrible Asiatic epidemic ? 

Mike. — Well, you see, docthur, about a wake ago I 
got into a little fight with Jimmy Malooney, and the 
bloody spalpeen hit me a lick agin the stomach, and 
iver since that time I've had a quare falin, sort a-like 
cholera. Say, docthur dear, what can you do for me ? 

Dr. — Well, Mike, I will derivicate the diagnosis per- 
taining to the symptomatic indications, and then ascer- 
tain what remedial remedies to apply. 

Mike.— Yis, docthur, do ; sa [.see] what you can do for 
me, docthur, for I'm afeard I'm a goin' to have the blood}^ 
cholera. 

Dr. — Let me see j'our tongue, Mike. [^Mike puts out 
his tongue.^ The indications are of a rather heterogi- 
nary character. How is j^our appetite, Mike ? 

Mike. — Me appetite is very wake, docthur, very wake 
indade. I don't ate more'n half a loaf of r3'e bread, six 
paces of mate, and fourteen petaties at one male, and 
as dhrink, nothin' will lay on m}" sthomach but whisk^^ 

Dr. — I would not advise you to indulge very greatly 
in whisky, as it has a deleterious effect upon the sub- 
linguinary diaphoritic periosteum of the diaphragm. 



76 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

Mike. — Oh, docthiir, I can't git along without whisky, 
at all at all. Me health wo aid give way inthirely if it 
vasn't for the dhrop of dhrink. 

Dr. — Let me feel your pulse, Mike. [^Feels his pulse.'] 

Mike. — Does it bate regular, docthur ? 

Dr. — It's action is rather efferoesical. 

Mike. — Yis, sir. I thought so, raeself, docthur. 

Dr. — How do you rest at night, Mike ? 

Mike. — I rest on a bed, now ; but before I got siciv 
Bridget made me slape on the floor. \^Pronounce Jiure.] 

Dr. — I mean do you sleep well ? 

Mike. — Yis, sir. Excipt whin little Pat hollers like 
a wild cat for a dhrink of wather, and whin I git the 
wather he wants a pace of bread ; and so he kapes me 
runnin' all night long. 

Dr. — Well, Mike, I'll tell you exactly what is the 
matter with .you. I'm not one of the class of physicians 
that keep their patients in the dark as respects tiie 
nature of their complaints. 

Mike. — Yis, do, docthur ; let me hare all aboot it, for 
I'm dreadfully afeard of cholera, bad luck to the bloody 
disase. 

Dr. — The transverse colon of the recto lymphatics is 
prevented from performing its proper functions, in con- 
sequence of the duplicatures of the posterior auricular 
teraporo malillary esophagus, pressing against the facial 
artery of the duodenum, located upon the meso rectum 
of the four layers of the great omentum. Also the aper- 
ture of the meatus auditorius externis is obstructed, by 
coagulated secretions formed in the heart of the thorax. 
Also the seratus porticus superior is very much dilated, 
from the pressure upon it of the levator angali scapulae, 
and the flexor longus poUicis pedus tendon. 

Mike. — Oh, docthur, I knode it was something li 
that was the mather with me. Oh, be-gorra, docthur, I 
kin niver git over so many ailments. Oh, docthur, do 
you think I can git all thim things fixed up all right 
Hgin. 

Dr. — Oh, 3'es; you needn't be alarmed if you will 
faithfully follow my prescriptions. [^Doctor prepares 
medicine.'] Here [^giving him a vial] is the double ex- 
tract of Kramfria ^rianda ; take half a teaspoonful upou 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 77 

going to bed, and the same quantity half an hour before 
each meal. You see, Mike, I always let my patients 
know exactl^y what I give them. Here is an infusion 
of Lauro Oerusus Yirginiana, intended to promote the 
proper action of the external plantar of the internal cal- 
canean. Take twenty drops twice a da}^ ; at three 
o'clock and again at seven. After taking these reme- 
dies three days, you will be entirely well. Here is also 
a small box of pills, consisting of Hydrargyri chloridi 
mitis cum ipecacuanhae. 

Mike. — There is none of the bloody mercury in 'em, 
is there ? 

Dr. — Oh, none at all, they are perfectly safe ; take 
six pills at a time, twice a day, at ten A. m., and again 
at two p. M. 

Mike. — Good-by, docthur, God bless you. 

Dr. — Good-day, Mike. 



TWO FAULTS. 
DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



Nellie and Sarah, sisters at a boarding-school ; Sarah aged 
sixteen, Nellie, fourteen and a-half. 
Mary, their mutual friend, aged seventeen. 
Mr. Orabster, professor of mathemirics. 



Scene 1. — A room in the building, Sarah and Mary, 

busy at their books. Enter Nellie, humming softly to 

herself. 

Ma-RT. — Nellie please don't sing any more, that's a 
good child, it disturbs me and I do so want to under- 
stand this problem. 

Sarah. — Take your book, Nellie, and attend to your 
lessons immediately. If you don't alter your conduct, 
I will positively write to papa. You are a perpetual 
mortification to me. 

Nellie. — Really, Miss Perfection, it grieves me be- 
yond measure, to see you lay the matter so much to 
heart. I am afraid your angelic spirit will yet be 
17 



78 STANDAED DIALOGUES 

further tried. I know not what dark deed I may yet 
commit. 

irins a green ribbon to Sarah'' s dress and goes offJ] 

Sarah. — That girl grows more careless and provoking 
every day. I almost despair of ever making any im- 
pression upon so vain and trifling a nature. 

Mary. — Really it grieves me, Sarah, to hear yon speak 
so unsparingly of your sister's faults. The truly gen- 
erous mind can not but look with compassion upon those 
to whom nature has given inferior endowments to its 
own. When I hear persons arrogate to themselves vir- 
tues, which the}^ blame others for not possessing, I can 
not but remember the injunction of St. Paul, " Let him 
that thiuketh he standeth, take heed lest he fall." 

\_A hell sounds, and they both go off.'] 

Scene 2. — Recitation hall. Mr. Grabster — old gentleman, 
with sharp nose and spectacles. Sarah and Mary 
with the other girls of their class. 

Mr. Grabster. — Step to the blackboard in order. 
[^Beads an example ; each one performs it, and returns 
to her seat.] Take the pointer, Sarah, and explain the 
example. 

\_Sarah advances with great dignity, amid the sup- 
pressed giggling of the class.] 

Mr. Grabster. — Silence ! Miss Sarah, before you 
proceed any further, please to remove that string from 
your dress. 

Sarah [staring at him. blankly and turning red]. — 
There's no string to my dress, Mr. Grabster. 

Mr. Grabster. — Yes, but there is 

Sarah [;very indignant], — There isn't ; I don't wear 
strings to my clothes. 

Mr. Grabster. — Leave the hall immediatelyi and go 
to your room, miss, and remain there until I give you 
permission to leave it. 

[^Curtain falls,'} 



STANDAED DIALOGUES 79 

Scene 3. — Mr. Grabster, at his desk alone, busily writing. 

Nellie enters, and approaches him looking very con- 
fused and ashamed. 

Mr. Grabster [^ruffly~\. — Well, what do you want? 

Nellie. — To go to Sarah's room in her place, for I 
was the one in fault. I pinned the ribbon to her dress ; 
I only did it to tease her. I did not think of her wear- 
ing it to the hall. Please let me be punished ! 

Mr. Grabster [resuming his writing']. — I'll do \\9 
such thing. I did not punish her for wearing the string, 
but for contradicting me, and speaking so unlady-Iike 
as she uJd. 

Nellie. — But she did not know the ribbon was there ; 
and any thing slovenly about her dress always makes 
her so angry. And now you see that I am the one who 
deserves to be punished, and will let me go be a 
prisoner, and release Sarah, 

Mr. Grabster [meditatively']. — In consideration of 
the extraordinary features of the case, I s-uppose 
that I will have to pardon you both, for this time, if 
Miss Sarah will make a suitable apology for her rude 
behavior, and you promise to give up your mischievous 
pranks for the future, and attend more closely to your 
studies. [ Curtain falls.] 

Scene 4. — Sarah and Mary in the latter^s room. 

Mary. — Sarah, you must not say you will never for- 
give her, it is both childish and wicked. If you were 
truly grieved to see these faults in your 3^oung sister, 
as you say you are, you should.be willing to use every 
means in your power to correct them. If I must speak 
with the candor of a true friend, I think you generally 
take the way least calculated to effect a reformation in 
Nellie's character, and often succeed in placing your- 
self as much in fault as she. If you would only learn 
to control your temper, and meet her lively sallies in 
the spirit of banter, in which they are given, it would 
be half the battle. In the present instance, if you had 
not lost your good humor the moment Mr. Grabster 
spoke to you about the ribbon, the whole affair might 
have passed off without occasioning any annoyance to 
any on<». 



80 STANDARD DIALOGUES 



GRUMBLING OYER LESSONS. 

CHARACTERS. 

Olive, a large girl. Alma, same size. 

Sarah. Carrie. Mary. Salome. Magoib. 

Charlie, a mischievous boy, who can whistle Dixie. 



Scene. — The girls stand in groups, playing, and eating 
dinner, as it is noon-time. 

Olive. — Now, girls, the teacher has gone after her 
dinner, the boys are at play, so let us have a good time 
studying our lessons. 

Carrie. — Yes. Hurrah ! let's get our books and study. 
[ They run and procure them, and study for a minute.'] 
I do think [pouting'] the teacher is real mean not to let 
us whisper, or hardly move in school ; now, when we 
study, we can stand up or walk around, and learn ever 
so much better. Can't we, Mary ? 

Mary. — Yes, that we can. / think she's mean, too. 

SAkAH. — So do I. 

Salome. — And I, too. 

Olive. — Now, girls, stop talking so. You know we 
couldn't study a bit well if it was nois}^ 

Maggie. — That's true. Girls, keep still. How can I 
study now ? [ They keep quiet until Maggie exclaims] 
— Oh, dear ! I never can get this lesson in spelling I 
How hard it is ! I can never remember these definitions. 
And what good will they ever do ? There ! — [throwing 
the speller on the desk] — I'll give it up — can't learn it. 

Olive. — Remember the motto, Maggie, "I'll try." 

Maggie. — Well, 1 will try a little. [Reluctantly takes 
up her hook and studies aloud.] M-o-r-t-a-r, a short piece 
of ordnance used for throwing shells. C-a-r-b-i-n-e, a 
short gun, borne by light horsemen, carried over the 
left shoulder, and has a ball weighing twenty-four 
pounds. 

Olive. — Why, Maggie ! you had better think. It 
must be a large gun to carry a ball weighing twenty- 
four pounds. 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 81 

Magqie. — Well, it says something about twenty-four 
pounds. 

Olive. — It says twenty-four balls weigh one pound. 

Maggie. — Well, that's a sad mistake. I'm most dis- 
couraged. 

Sarah. — That is as bad a mistake as our class in 
geography made the other day. We were going by 
water from Cleveland to Quebec, and going, too, right 
down the Niagara river over the Falls, forgetting all 
about Welland Canal. Teacher says we must learn to 
think, and that is so hard ; isn't it, Maggie ? 

Maggie. — Yes, indeed it is. 

Olive. — But if you do not learn to think, you will 
not make much of a scholar. 

Alma [who stands at the blackboard with chalk in 
hand']. — Well, I never can write this sentence, if I 
think a week. A sentence whose principal parts are 
each limited by a word, phrase, and sentence. [Sits 
down for awhile in despair, then arises and goes to work.] 

Sarah [with a frown, scribbling on slate]. — What a 
hard arithmetic lesson ! To write a rule of our own for 
long division. I never can do it without 

Olive. — Without thinking, Sarah. No, of course you 
can't. 

Sarah [contemj^tuously]. — Oh, Miss Preacher, I didn't 
mean that. I meant without looking in my book. 

Olive. — Oh, girls, j^ou ought not to grumble ! Our 
teacher gives j^ou lessons which will teach you to think 
for yourselves. You must not be dependent on others, 
but learn to depend on your own energies. " Good 
scholars must be thorough in every thing." That is a 
good text. 

Alma [half laughing]. — And you are as good as a 
preacher. Say, Olive, how much salary would you ask 
to give us a sermon like the one just delivered, every 
noon until close of term ? [Sarcastically.] No doubt 
we would daily grow wiser and better. 

Carrie. — Now stop, Alma, j^ou are using the lan- 
guage of irony too much. 

Olive. — Well, girls, I think you are most too bad 
You know I say the truth, and sometime you will be 
sorry When you grow old 



82 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

Sarah. — As old as the reverend Olive ! Girls let us 
count the gray hairs [touching Olivers locks \ on her ven- 
erable head. \_All laugh.'] 

Salome [croasly']. — I never in the world can make 
sentences which contain these words — discooraged, ven- 
erably, and contented. 

Alma [going to her and taking speller]. — Yes you 
can. Say Alma is discouraged about learning to write 
sentences, Olive's grave words sound venerably, and she 
is contented to lecture ugly girls, and so on. 

Mary [throwing down geography]. — Come, girls, let 
us go and play. 

Carrie. — Oh, no ! not yet. We couldn't get to the 
door before Olive, the preacher, would say. Girls remem- 
ber what the teacher sa3^s — "Lessons first, play af- 
terwards ;" and then we would be conscience smitten. 
[They all study, till Mary, with a sour face, exclaims] 
— Oh, what a hard geography lesson ! How to go by 
water from Grand Rapids to Buffalo. I shall sink 
before I get there ! Dear me I 

Carrie [cyphering]. — I never can perform this ex- 
ample ! 

Olive [cheerfully]. — Find a way, or make a way, 
Carrie. 

Alma. — Well, Olive, I've got a kind of a sentence. 
It's the best I can do. I wouldn't have tried, if I had 
not been anxious to be benefited by your sober sermon. 

Olive. — I'm glad it has done some good. If you 
have done the best you can, you have " done well — acted 
nobly! Angels do no more!" 

Charlie [coyning in whistling]. — Why, girls, what 
are you doing now ! 

Girls [all together, pushing and striking him]. — Go 
away ! Stop bothering ! You're always teasing ! We are 
studying. 

Charlie [looking surprised, and giving a long whis- 
tle]. — Studying ! nonsense ! stud3dng ! You look cross 
as bears ! You never can learn with such sour faces I 

Olive. — The}' are complaining, and pouting, and 
grumbling over hard lessons. 

Charlie. — Now, girls ! I'd be ashamed ! To spoil 
such a nice jlaytime by acting so ! Come, let us sing " I 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 83 

wish I had my lesson," and then go and play awhile; 
and when school calls, if you stop looking cross, and 
study liard, the wish will surely come to pass. 

Sarah. — Yes ; the singing comes next in order after 
sermon. Olive, say the congregation will sing hymn 
on 173d page, common, particular, length}^ short metre, 
Olive. — Now behave, Sarah, or I will not help you. 
Sarah. — Well, I suppose I must mind, but it's tough. 
Olive, you commence, and I'll lengthen my face and 
sing with all the strength of my powerful lungs. 

[^They all sing "I wish I had my le s son, ^^ tune, 
^^Dixie.^^ Charlie whistles. All go off with life 
and energy.'] 

I'm glad I live in the land of learning, 
Wisdom's heights I'm just discerning, 

Far away, far away, away, far away. 
Although sometimes I'm sad and weary, 
And the way looks dark and dreary, 
I'll away, 1^11 away, away, I'll away. 
Chorus. — I wish I had my lesson, 
I do, I do ; 
In learning I will end my days, 
And live and die in wisdom's ways. 

I'll try, I'll try, 
I'll try to learn my lesson ; 

• I'll try, I'll try, 
I'll try to learn my lesson. 

Sarah. — Sometimes, w^hen I have hard lessons, I'm 
almost sorr}^ I live in the land of learning. It will be 
a long time before I can ever discern wisdom's heights. 

Too many children fret and worry, 
Because the^;- can't learn in a hurry, 

Right away, right away, away, right away. 
But as for me, as I grow stronger, 
I will strive to study longer, 
Work away, work away, away, work away. 
Chorus. — I wish I had my lesson, &c. 
Charlie. — Yes, too many children''have been fretting 
and worrjdng this noon, I should judge. 

Alma. — Now, Charlie, stop teasing; we've reformed. 
Don't you ever fret and worry ? 

Charlie. — Well, j^es, sometimes ; but I don't often 
draw my face so prodigiously long. 



84 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

Sometimes I think of the simny hours, 
The golden bees and pretty flowers, 

Far away, far away, away, far away. 
But then I know when school is over, 
I can run in the fields of clover, 

Skip away, skip away, away, skip away. 
Chorus. — I wish I had my lesson, &c. 

Mary. — Well, I wish school was over now. I long to 
oe out in the woods and among the flowers, witl books, 
lessons, and teacher out of sight and hearing. 
I love my school next to my mother. 
Next to father, sister, brother. 

Work away, work away, away, work a\Y«»y. 
While I'm young and while I'm ruddy. 
I will work and I will study. 
Work away, work away, away, work away. 
Chorus. — Oh ! I know I'll learn my lesson, &c. 
Carrie. — I love my school pretty well, but I love 
play and fun next to my mother, " next to father, sister, 
brother." And now hurrah! let's leave our books and 
have a grand, good time before the bell rings. \_They 
exit with shouts and laughter.'] 



BEHIND THE SCENES. 

CHAEACTEES. 

Maria, ) Three girls, who remain 
Kate, \- after school to study 

Nellie. I their lessons. 



ScENE.^ — Chairs or benches to represent school-room. 
Desks. Cloaks hanging up. Curtain rises. 

Nellie. — There 1 I have finished my algebra lesson 
at last. Oh 1 how tiresome it is to study so much! I 
wish I was a queen, then I should never have to go to 
school. 

Kate. — But you would, when you were a princess, 
and have far more to study ; and you know " There is 
no royal road to learnfng.'' So you must make a better 
^ish than ♦^hat. 



STANDAED DIALOGUES 85 

Nellie. — Then I will wish my studies were over. My 
heart seems to be full of bees. Philosophy buzzes in 
it, and grammar buzzes, and algebra buzzes, till I am 
almost distracted. 1 shall be glad when my studies are 
done. 

Katf — What a hive of learning and sweetness it 
must be! But, Nellie, dear, do you remember wliat our 
teacher told us the other da}^, that our studies would 
not be ended while we lived ; we must always be learn- 
ing something new. 

Maria. — Congratulate me, girls ! I have committed 
to memory a difficult history lesson, and can say it 
perfectly — now listen : " The victorious general" 

Nellie [interrupting^. — Oh ! don't, Maria ! We have 
enough of that through study hours. Let us talk of 
something not quite so learned, and more interesting. 

Kate. — My party, for instance. You know, girls, 
my birthday comes next week, and I have been promi-ed 
a birthday party. Mamma is to manage it all. There 
will be dancing, and refreshment, just like a grown up 
party, and I am to have a new white dress with eight 
tucks. I am so glad we staid this afternoon, because 
we can arrange whom to invite. Of course, you two, 
Nellie and Maria, and the Smiths and Browns will 
come. I shall have to leave some out. I must con- 
sider whom. 

Nellie. — Be sure and invite Minerva Barry; you 
know her father has "struck ile" [mimicking'], and made 
his everlastin' forchune. She will be likely to wear her 
flame color silk that cost " a heap of money." 

Kate. — Now, Nellie, you are too bad. If you had 
been brought up with such disadvantages as Minerva 
has, you would be awkward and ignorant, too. 

Nellie. — Then I should have staid in the backwoods, 
where I belonged. Why, she brings bread and ham to 
school to eat in the classes, and says she likes it "power 
fully." " You needn't mind an}^ thing I dew," she said 
to Miss Horton, "my pa's rich, he's struck ile." 

Kate. — Poor ';hing! if an}- one would be kind enough 
to tell her how "rightful she looks in those rich silks 
she wears to sclool, and how much more becoming a 



86 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

neat gingham would be, it would be doing her a real 
service. 

Maria. — Let her wear what she likes, girls, but for 
pity's sake don't invite her to your party, Kate. Wh}-, 
she would eat ice-cream with a fork, and cold turkey 
with her fingers, and she would wear the flame color 
silk with 3^ellow bows ; and then just imagine her telling 
every one in the room, " My pa's rich, he's struck ile" 
[draivling']. 

Nellie. — Or playing Yankee Doodle with one hand, 
on the piano, to show off her accomplishments. 

Kate. — Girls, you are too bad. Nothing is ever 
accomplished by ridicule. It is the weapon of weak 
minds. I think something may yet be made of Minerva, 
for she has a good heart. 

A Voice. — Thank you, Kate. 

[^The girls look up in astonishment and see Minerva 
just stepping from helmid a cloak that was hung iq?.'] 

Nellie [scornfully']. — Listeners never hear any good 
of themselves. 

Minerva [^angrily]. — I wasn't listening, I just went in 
behind there to frighten you ; I didn't think you were 
mean enough to talk about a schoolmate behind her 
back, that way. I — I wont like you ever again, nor 
speak to you either, except Kate. 

Nellie [aside]. — Oh, don't we feel hurt! aint it 
dreadful! and our pa's aint rich, and haven't struck 
ile. [Aloud.] Oh, Minerva ! forgive us ! we didn't 
mean any thing bad — girls always talk about each 
other. 

Minerva. — Oh, I don't mind if you are sorry for it 
I suppose I can afford to forgive you. My pa's rich — 
but I like Kate the best, after all. [Exit Minerva.] 

Maria. — What a muss we have got into. Who would 
have thought there was any one listening ? 

Kate [gravely]. — There is always One listening to 
our idle words ; so we should be careful, girls, and not 
go too far in talking nonsense. But now about the 
party. Of course, we must have our usher, Mr. Jacobs, 
to make fun for the children ; he knows so man}^ games, 
and tells such funny stories. 

Nellie. — But suppose he should forget, and cry, 



& 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 87 

"First class in geo-o-grapb3% this wa^^" or " boys 1 
boys! girls ! girls ! less noise ! wouldn't it sound funny"? 

Maria. — And he is so absent-minded ; he will take 
snulfall the time, and 

A yoiCE. — Stop, girls, till I get out of this ! 

Mr. Jacobs, a little old man, with spectacles on and 
a pen in his hand, steps from behind a desk. 2 

Mr. Jacobs [m a most comical tone']. — ''My pa's rich, 
he's struck ile !" 

Girls [^altogether]. — Oh! Mr. Jacobs! 

Kate. — Did you hear all our foolish talk? We thought 
you had gone home. 

Mr. Jacobs. — I am afraid, my dear children, you 
struck deeper than "ile." Poor Minerva must feel 
both angry and ashamed. Let me suggest that here- 
after you imagine a listener near, and always temper 
justice with mercy, when speaking of the defects of 
another. There is a very beautiful little verse I would 
like you to commit to memor3\ I think, Kate, 3^ou 
know it already. Let me repeat it, after which we will 
go home. 

"Teach me to feel another's woe, 

To hide the faults I see ; 

That mercy I to others show, 

'I'liat mercy show to me," 

[ Curtain falls.'] 



THE TEST. 

CHARACTERS. 

Mr. Wallace. Mrs. Watson. 

Tom Wallace. John Watson. 



Scene 1. — A room. Mrs. Watson and John Watson 
discovered. 

Mrs. Watson. — Ah, it is very hard to live in this 
way after having been reared in a palace of luxury. 
Every thing is gone from me now, but you, my son. 
The house has been s'^ld, and we have scarcely enough 



88 .STANDARD DIALOGUES 

to keep us alive for a few short weeks, while I have 
such poor health that I am scarcely able to move about. 

John. — Do not despond, dear mother. I will soon 
find something to do, and then we will get along nicely. 
I can make money enough to keep us alive, but I do 
feel sorr}^ that I must give up going to school. I had 
become very much interested in that arithmetic that 
used to seem so dry, and I was getting along finely. 

Mrs. W. — I did not like to have you leave school 
just now when j^ou so much need schooling, but grim 
poverty is looking us in the face and we must endeavor 
in some way to keep ourselves alive. If I vrere only 
able I could make something, but as it is I can do noth- 
ing. I am only a weight on your hands. 

John. — You must not talk so, mother. I shall feel 
ver}'' much displeased if you do. You are no weight on 
my hands. What would I have been without you ? 
But I must get my cap and see if I can not find a situa- 
tion. We have a little money yet, you know, and I 
think it will last until I find something to do. 

\_Going, meets Tom Wallace.'] 

Tom. — Hallo, John ! where away so fast ? You seein 
to be in a great hurry. 

John. — I'm just going out to see if I can't find a situa- 
tion. You know since our recent misfortunes we are in 
rather straitened circumstances, and I want to see if 
I can't find something to do. But come in and sit down. 
I'll not go out now. 

Tom [to Mrs. Watsori]. — Good-morning, Mrs. Wat- 
son. I hope you are better this morning. 

Mrs. W. — Not much, my young friend. I am very 
weak, and the troubles that have come upon us seem 
rather to have made me worse. 

Tom. — John has said that he was about to go out to 
seek a situation. I have just come in in the nick of 
time. Father wants a boy, and he told me to speak to 
John the first time I should meet him and ask him if he 
would accept a situation in his store. I thought I would 
no*^^ wait until I would meet him on the street, but ran 
over here immediately. If 30U feel like going, John, he 
will be glad to have you. 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 89 

John. — I will go, gladly. I had a great deal rather 
work for a man I knew than for a stranger. 

Mrs. W. — I am ver}^ glad that you have obtained a 
situation for John. I know it is a very difficult matter 
at present to find employment of an^^ kind, and I feel 
truly grateful to both you and your father for what you 
have done. 

Tom. — No thanks, Mrs. Watson. Father was in need 
of a boy, and as he knew John to be sober and industri- 
ous and supposing he would be anxious for steady em- 
ployment, he decided to ask him to come. You will 
come to-morrow morning ? 

John. — Yes ; I will be on hand early. 

Tom. — All right. Good-morning. 

Mrs. W. and John. — Good-morning. 
[^Curtain falls']. 

Scene 2. — Mr. Wallace^s store. John Watson and Tom 
Wallace discovered. 

Tom. — Come now, John ; don't be so puritanical in 
your notions. Here is some tip-top wine. I got it 
down at Harlan's, and I know you will like it. Take a 
drop, do ! 

John. — Indeed, Tom, I will not. I know something 
of the evils of intemperance and I am fully determined 
that I will never drink intoxicating liquor of any kind, 

Tom. — John, don't be a fool. There is a wide differ- 
ence between beinor a drunkard and taking a glass of 
wine occasionally. 

John. — Not a very wide difference, I assure you. 
Can you point to a single drunkard who didn't com- 
mence his downward course bj- drinking a little "pru- 
dently," "temperately," as it is sometimes called? 
Point me to a single instance, will you ? 

Tom. — I don't know that I can, but I can point you 
to a great many who have been drinking temperately 
for a long time and yet there is no prospect of their be- 
coming drunkards. 

John. — I have no doubt there are some temperate 
drinkers who will net become drunkards, but they are 
few. The greatei oart of them will fill drunkards' 
graves. 



90 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

Tom. — Well, this wine will not hurt you, but on the 
sontrary it will make you feel like a new man. Come 
now, take a drop, and don't be a goose. 

John. — Indeed I will not. You have my answer. 
But, Tom, I am surprised to see you have a bottle of 
wine with you. I thought you were strictly temperate. 

Tom. — There's no use in a fellow being so awful strict. 
I think I can take a little pull occasionally and yet not 
be a drunkard. I was at Alice Craig's birthday party 
last week, and when we were all about to pledge the 
fair Alice in a glass of wine, one of 3'our strictly tem- 
perate fellows refused to drink. He said he would 
drink hef health in a glass of water, but he had given 
his mother a promise that he would never drink wine, 
nor any other kind of intoxicating liquor, and he meant 
to keep that promise. Of course all the boys laughed 
at him, and Alice herself looked very much displeased 
but said nothing. Now, how would you have done if 
you had been in that fellow's place ? You certainly 
would not have refused to drink on an occasion of that 
kind. 

John. — Yes ; I would have refused. I would have 
done just exactly the same as that young man did, even 
if every person in the room had laughed at me, and if 
I had been turned out of doors by the young lady's 
father. I tell you, Tom, I have seen enough of the evils 
of intemperance to make me bitter in my denunciations 
of the wine cup. I havp seen the promising youth — the 
pride of the father and the delight of the mother — in a 
few short years become a driveling sot. I have seen 
the father, who should have been looked up to for coun- 
sel and, advice, go staggering to his home, there to meet 
a number of starving, frightened children, and a heart- 
broken wife. I am 3"oung yet, but I have seen enough 
to make me detest the wine-cup ; and I have determined 
that, b}^ the help of God, I wiWnever let one drop of in 
toxicating liquor pass my lips. 

Tom. — I declare, John, you have turned temperance 
Icctui-er. Well, I can't stand this speechifying, so I'll 
go out. lExit Tom..^ 

John. — I am really surprised to see Tom with a bot- 
tl»v I supposed that he hated intoxicating liquors as 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 91 

much as I do. Plis father doesn't know of it or there 
would be a rumpus. I sincerely hope he may not be 
led away. I intend to talk to him again, but I must be 
careful how I talk, for if I offend him he may persuade 
his father to discharge me. [Sees note on the floor.'] 
Hallo ! what's this ? [Picks it up.'] A twent}^ dollar 
note, as sure as I'm alive ! I wonder who could have 
dropped it. Probably some one who was in the store 
this evening. Oh, won't that buy lots of nice things 
for my poor sick mother ? Aint I glad that I found it 
instead of Tom ? It is a wonder he didn't see it. Let 
me see — what will I buy ? First, we must have some 
coal, for our stock is getting low ; and then we will have 
a nice turkey for Thanksgiving, and mother shall have 
a new shawl and — [pauses a few moments.] I don't be- 
lieve I ought to keep this mone3^ It isn't mine if I did 
find it. It would buy some things we need very much, 
but it isn't mine, and I must not keep it. Oh, I wish 
I was rich ! It would be so much easier to do right if 
I was rich. Well, I'll not keep the money — thaVs 
settled ! I'll do as near right as I know how even if we 
are poor and have hard getting along. It is settled. 
I'll hand the money to Mr. Wallace and he can find out 
who lost it and return it to the rightful owner. 

[Enter Mr. Wallace.] 

Mr. Wallace. — Well, John ; did you take that pack- 
age down to Marshal's ? 

John. — Yes, sir. Here's a twenty dollar note I found 
here on the floor a few minutes ago. I suppose it was 
dropped by some of the customers this evening. You 
can find out the owner, if yow please, sir, and hand it 
back. 

Mr. W, — And why not keep the note, John ? It 
isn't probable the owner can be found. 

John — But the money isn't mine, and I will not 
keep it. I was tempted to keep it when I found it, and 
thought how mau}^ nice things it would buy for my poor 
mother; but right triumphed over wrong and I deter- 
mtned that I would not keep it. 

Mr. W. — I will tell j^ou all. I was just outside and 
h'^ard all your soliloqu3^ and your conversation with 



92 StANDAKD DIALOGUES 

Tom. It was all a little plan to test you. Tom does 
not drink but, at my request, he tried to induce you to 
join him in a glass of wine. I am proud to say that he 
is the strictly temperate fellow he spoke of who would 
not pledge Alice Craig in a glass of wine. Whilst you 
were talking he dropped the note to give you another 
test. It was rather severe, but you have stood it man- 
fully and henceforth you shall have a permanent situa- 
tion in my store, and your mother shall want for noth- 
ing. As an earnest of what I intend to do, I present 
you with the twenty dollar note. Take it and buy what- 
ever you need, and remember that as long as you are 
as honest as you have proved yourself this evening, and 
that as long as you are as strictly temperate and as 
good a temperance lecturer as you have proved yourself 
this evening, 3^ou will always find a friend in me. 

John. — Oh, sir ; how can I ever thank you for your 
kindness? [Curtain falls. ^ 



THANKSGIVING. 



CHARACTERS. 
Henry "Wentworth. Robert Allen. Emily Melvillb. 



Scene. — A room in Mrs. Melville^s house. Mr. Went- 
worth discovered. 

Mtt. Went WORTH. — Well, here I am, ei, sconced in my 
new boarding-place, and a snug little place it is, but the 
villagers seem most awful slow. I really don't know 
t\^hat is to become of me. It is about thirty years since 
I found myself a rich man, and since that time I have 
been a miserable dog. I've traveled all over p]urope, 
and still I am not satisfied with myself, nor satisfied 
with ^wy body else. I didn't like Russia ; it was far too 
cold, and Italy was far too hot. Holland was inexpress- 
ibly dull, and France was inexpressibi}' gay. Nothing 
pleases me. I am all out of sorts. 'Tis a great pity 
thai I am '^ot still poor. It was an unlucky day for me 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 93 

when I became possessor of m}^ immense fortune. Well, 
I find myself now in a snug little house, and I think I'll 
stay a few weeks. It must be very lonely for the lady 
and her daughter to live here all alone. They seem to be 
only in tolerable circumstances, and I think I'll help 
them along a little, if I can find a way of doing it with- 
out offending them. To-morrow is Thanksgiving, and 
from the way the pretty little Emily is flying round, we 
may expect a sumptuous dinner of turkey, pumpkin- 
pies, etc. She's a famous little cook. I'll wager she 
can't be beaten in the State. Well, here's the morning 
paper — the Star. It's a stupid old thing, but I'll look 
it over, and take a smoke, on the porch. [^Betires.'] 
[^Entei" Emily.'] 

Emily. — Mr. Wentworth is gone out, and I'll brush 
things up a little. \_Proceeds to arrange furniture, etc.'] 
He's a nice old gentleman, but a little crusty sometimes. 
Well, while he boards with us, we will endeavor to make 
him feel happy and contented. They say that riches 
make a man happy, but I don't believe it. Mr. Went- 
worth is reputed a very wealthy man, and he doesn't 
seem to be the least bit happy. IHums a tune as she pro- 
ceeds with her work; knock at the door; opened by 
Emily.] 

[Enter Robert] 
Good morning, Robert. What's the matter, that you 
are out so early this morning ? 

Robert. — I came over to see if you wanted Mr. 
Gray's pony, to ride to church to-morrow. I can get 
him for 3^ou. 

Emily.— Oh, no, Robert! I'll walk. Our old bachelor 
boarder is going to church, and we'll all walk together. 
You must remember what I told you last Monday, and 
come here for dinner. We will have a nice time. Arn't 
you glad, Rol^ert, when Thanksgiving comes around ? 

Robert. — I can't say I am. Emil}^, I have been won- 
dering what we have to be thankful for. What's the 
use of pretending to be thankful when yon don't feel so ? 

Emily.— Oh, Robert! 

Robert. — I'm in earnest. Just look at it in every 
light, and tell me why we should be thankful. Is there 
any thing we ought to be particularly thankful for ? 

18 



94 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

Emily. — Oh, yes, Robert ! We ought to be thankfiiV 
for the sunshine and the rain. We ought to be thankful 
for the bread we eat, and for the many blessings that 
surround our daily life. 

Robert. — Yes, I know ; but I am not thinking of 
these common-place affairs. Emily, you know we are 
both poor. I am totally without employment, although 
I have been seeking in the city for something to do for 
the last three weeks. While this lasts you know we 
can not be married. I would be willing to work, and 
work hard, from daylight to dark, that I might earn 
something, and that I might be enabled to lay some- 
thing by, and be able to look forward to the bright day 
when I could claim you as my own. 

Emily [coming to his side, and loohingup in his/ace.^ — 
Dear Robert, don't be disheartened. A brighter and a 
happier day will dawn. We will yet be happy. Let us 
put our trust in God, and all will be well. He will pro- 
vide for us if we will implicitly rely on Him, and bide 
his own good time. , 

Robert. — I believe — I — I know I have been talking 
like a great blockhead, but I can't help feeling discour- 
aged and disheartened. It seems hard that we must 
wear out our lives in this endless waiting. Our best 
dsijs are passing away, and we are becoming poorer and 
poorer. Oh ! will there never be any change ? Must we 
still drag along in this wretched, miserable wa}*- ? 

Emily. — ^Robert, do not talk in this way. If we but 
trust in God, all will yet be well. [A noise is heard as 
of a chair being moved. ~\ 

Robert. — What's that ? 

Emily. — Oh, my ! The window is open, and perhaps 
Mr. Wentworth is on the porch. What if he has heard 
our conversation ? 

Robert. — I hope he hasn't. Let us get out of this 
anyhow. \_Exeunt to kitchen.'] 

[Enter Mr. Wentworth.] 

Mr. Wentworth. — Well, I must confess I have a sort 
of a hang-dog feeling just now. I didn't want to hear 
what the two young folks were talking about, but I 
couldn't get up and leave without disturbing them, and, 
to tell the truth, I couldn't help listening. I think, 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 95 

however, they will forgive me for eavesdropping; for I 
will put them on a plan whereby they can get married 
right off; and then that young fellow will stop his whin- 
ing. Poor fellow, I pity him ! I know it is a dreadful 
thing to be in love, and not have enough of the filthy 
lucre to enable you to step into matrimony. I can sym- 
pathize with the-3'oung dog, for I was once in the same 
ugly predicament. Ah ! that vision of sunny curls and 
soft brown eyes haunts me still, but, unfortunately, the 
possessor of the sunny curls and soft brown ej^es hadn't 
the true heart that my little hostess has. But enough ; 
I will not think of the past. I'll make these two young 
lovers happy, and then Til run off. I couldn't stay aud 
hear the thousands of thanks they would rain on me. 
Indeed I couldn't ! I'll be sorry to lose the Thanksgiv- 
ing dinner, too. The pumpkin-pies will be superb, and 
the turkey will be done to a turn. [To,kes out pocket- 
book.^ Here's a check for three thousand. That will 
give them a start in the world. Now I'll pencil a little 
note to Emily, and be off. [Writes and encloses the 
check.'] Now, my hat. Thank fortune I 've no baggage. 
[Goes to door leading to porch. Calls back.] Emily! 
I mean Miss Mellville ! [Emily appears.] I'm off 
now. 

Emily. — Wh}^ Mr. Wentworth, what's the matter ? 
Why are you going to leave so soon ? 

Mr. Wentavorth. — Oh! I've suddenly taken a notion 
to go back to the city. I'm restless, you know ; can't 
stay long in one place. There's a note on the table for 
you, explaining my sudden departure, and containing 
money enough to pa}^ m}^ board bill. I'll come back and 
see 3'ou someday. Good-by ! [Exit Mr. Wentivorth.] 

Emily. — Well, I declare ; this is funny. What a 
strange kind of a man ! I believe he doesn't know one 
minute what he'll do the next. I will read his note. 
[Opens and reads.] Robert, Robert, come here ! [En- 
ter Robert.] Would you believe it ! That strange old 
gentleman has run off, and left me three thousand 
dollars. 

Robert. — What ! 

Emily. — Three thousand dollars ! just think of it ! 



96 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

And he says I must many you immediately ; but here's 
the letter ; read for yourself. 

Robert [takes the letter and reads alo^id']. — " My little 
friend Emily : I unintentionally overheard your conver- 
sation a few minutes ago. Here's a check for three 
thousand dollars. Take it, marry the young man im- 
mediately, and be happy. I have piles of money, and 
the only good it does me is to give it away to deserving 
persons. It makes a man feel good to do a benevolent 
action. Take the money, and don't forget your old 
friend Wentworth." Three thousand dollars ! Well, 
I'm astonished ! What did he run away for ? 

Emily. — I don't know, unless it was because he didn't 
want to hear us thank him for his kindness. I am real 
sorry he is gone. 

Robert. — And you will accept the present ? 

Emily. — Certainly, Robert. We are rich people now, 
and when Mr. Wentworth comes back, wont we over- 
power him with our thanks? Oh, what a kind-hearted 
man he is 1 But yon will now keep Thanksgiving from 
your heart, will you not, Robert ? 

Robert. — I will. 

Emily. — And should sorrows surround us, and the 
dark clouds lower over our pathway, you will still trust 
in the Great Benefactor. 

Ro n rt [reverently.^ — The Lord helping me, I will. 
[Curtain falls.2 



THE MATRIMONIAL ADVERTISEMENT. 

CHARACTERS 

i Mary Cole. GRANDiMoxHER Cole, who is very deaf. 

Jack Cole. Aunt Martha Gordon. Cyrus Gordon. 



Scene 1. — The sitting-room of the Cole family. Mary 

reading a newspaper. Grandmother Cole knitting. 

Aunt Martha crochetting. Jack playing with the balls 

in Aunt Martha'^s icork-basket. 

Mary Cole. — Oh, Aunt Martha ! onl}^ hear this ! it's 
m the Chronicle. What a splendid chance 1 I declare, 
I've a great mind to answer it m^^self ! 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 97 

Aunt M. — What have you got hold of no-w ? You're 
allez a-making some powerful diskiveiy somewheres 
What now? Something to turn gray eyes black, and 
blue eyes gra^^ ? 

Mary. — No ; it's a matrimonial advertisement. What 
a splendid fellow this *' C. G." must be ! 

Aunt M. — Oh, shaw ! A body must be dreadfull}^ put 
to it, to advertise for a pardner in the newspapers. 
Thank goodness ! I never got in such a strait as that 
'ere. The Lord has marcyfully kept me thus fur from 
having any dealings with the male sect, and I trust I 
shall be presarved to the end. 

Jack Cole. — Didn't you ever have an offer, Aunt 
Mattie? 

Aunt M. [^indignantly^. — Why, Jack Cole ! What an 
idee! I've had more chances to change my condition 
than you're got fingers and toes. But I refused 'em all. 
A single life is the only way to be happy. But it did 
kinder hurt my feelings to send some of my sparks 
adrift — they took it so hard. There was Colonel Turner. 
He lost his wife in June, and the last of August he come 
over to our 'ouse, and I give him to understand that he 
needn't trouble hisself ; and he felt so mad that he went 
rite off and married the Widder Hopkins afore the month 
was out. 

Jack. — Poor fellow ! How he must have felt ! And 
Aunt Mattie, I notice that Deacon Goodrich looks at 
you a great deal in meeting, since j^ou've got that pm^: 
feather on your bonnet. What if he should want you to 
be a mother to his ten little ones ? 

Aunt M. [simpe^^ing']. — Law, Jack Cole! What a 
dreadful boy 3^ou be ! [Finchea his ear.'] The deacon 
never thought of such a thing ! But if it should please 
Providence to appoint to me such a fate, I should try 
and be resigned. 

Granny Cole. — Resigued ! Who's resigned ? Not 
the President, has he? Well, I don't blame him. I'd 
resign, too, if I was into his place. Nothing spiles a 
man's character so quick as being President or Congress. 
Yer gran'father got in justice of the peace and chorus, 
once, and he resigned afore he was elected. Sed be 
didn't want his repetition s'^iled. 



98 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

Jack. — Three cheers for Gran 'father Cole I 

Granny C. — Cheers? What's the matter with the 
cheers now ? Yer father had them bottomed last 3- ear, 
and this year they were new painted. What's to pay 
with 'em now ? 

Mary [impatiently']. — Do listen, all of you, to this 
advertisement. 

Aunt M. — Mary Cole, I'm sorry your head is so 
turned with the vanities of this world. Advertising for 
a pardner in that way is wicked. I hadn't orter listen 
to it. 

Mary. — Oh, it wont hurt you a bit, auntie. [Beads.] 
"A gentleman of about forty, very fine looking; tall, 
slender, and fair-haired, with very expressive eyes, and 
side whiskers, and some property, wishes to make the 
acquaintance of a young lady with similar qualifica- 
tions 

Jack. — A young lady with expressive eyes and side 
whiskers 

Mary. — Do keep quiet. Jack Cole! [Beads.'] ''With 
similar qualifications as to good looks and amiable 
temper, with a view to matrimony. Address, with stamp 
to pay return postage — C. G., Scrubtoivn ; stating when 
and where an interview may be had." There ! what do 
you think of that ? 

Jack. — Deacon Goodrich to a T. " C. G." stands for 
Calvin Goodrich. 

Aunt M. — The land of goodness ! Deacon Goodrich, 
indeed ! a pillar of the church ! advertising for a wife ! 
No, no, Jack ; it can't be him ! He'd never stoop so low! 

Jack. — But if all the women are as hard-hearted as 
you are, and the poor man needs a wife. Think of his 
ten little olive plants ! 

Granny C. — Plants? Cabbage plants? 'Taint time 
to set them out yet. Fust of August is plenty airly enuff 
to set 'em for winter. Cabbages never begin to head 
till the nights come cold. 

Jack. — Poor Mr. C. G! Why don't you answer it, 
Aunt Mattie ; and tell him you'll darn his stockings for 
him, and comb that fair hair of his ? 

Aunt M. — Jack Cole! if you don't hold j^our tongue, 
I'll comb yoiu* hair for you in away you wont like. Me 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 99 

answering one of them low advertisements ! Me, indeed 1 
I haint so eager to get married as some folks I know. 
Brother Cyrus and I have lived all our lives in maiden 
meditation, fancy free — the only sensible ones of the 
family of twelve children ; and it's my idee that we shall 
continner on in that way. 

Maky. — 'Why, don't you believe that Uncle Cyrus 
would get married if he could ? 

Aunt M. — Your Uncle C^tus ! I tell you, Mary Cole, 
he wouldn't marry the best woman that ever trod ! I've 
heern him say so a hundred times. 

Mary. — Wont you answer this advertisement, auntie ? 
I'll give 3^ou a sheet of my nicest gilt-edged note-paper 
if you will ! 

Aunt M. [furiously^. — If 3^ou weren't so big, Mary 
Jane Cole, I'd spank you soundly! I vow I would I 
Me answer it, indeed ! 

[^Leaves the room in great indignation.'] 

Mary. — Look here. Jack. What'll you bet she wont 
reply to that notice ? 

Jack. — Nonsense ! Wouldn't she blaze if she could 
hear you ? 

Mary. — I'll wager my new curled waterfall against 
your ruby pin that Aunt Mattie replies to Mr. " C. G." 
before to-morrow night. 

Jack. — Done ! I shall wear a curled waterfall after 
to-morrow. 

Mary. — No, sir ! But I shall wear a ruby pin. Jack, 
who do you think " C. G." is ? 

Jack. — Really, I do not know ; do you ? Ah ! I know 
you do, by that look in your eyes. Tell me, that's a 
darling. 

Mary. — Not I. I don't expose secrets to a fellow who 
tells them all over town. Besides, it would spoil the fun. 

Jack. — Mary, you are the dearest little sister in the 
world ! Tell me, please. [ Taking her hands.] 

Mary. — No, sir ! You don't get that out of me. Take 
care, now. Let go of mj hands. I'm going up stairs 
t© keep an e3^e on Aunt Mattie. She's gone up now to 
write an answer to '' C. G." And if there is any fun by- 
aud-by, Jack, if you're a goed boy you shall be there 
to see. 



100 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

Granny C. — To sea? Going to sea? Why, Jack 
Cole ! you haint twenty-one yet and the sea's a dreadful 
place ! There's a sarpmt lives in it as big as the Scrub- 
town meeting-'us', and whales that swaller folks alive, 
clothes and all I I read about one in a book a great 
while ago that swallered a man of the name of Jonah, 
and he didn't set well on the critter's stummuck, and up 
lie come, lively as ever ! 

\_Gurtain falls.'] 

Scene 2. — The garden of a deserted house, in the vicin' 
ity of Mr. Golems. Mary leading Jack cautiously along 
a shaded path. 

Mary. — There ; we'll squat down behind this lilac 
bush. It's nearly the appointed hour. I heard Aunt 
Mattie soliloquizing in her room this morning, after this 
manner — "At eight o'clock this night I go to meet my 
destiny ! In the deserted garden, under the old pear- 
tree. How very romantic !" Hark ! there she comes ! 

Jack. — Well, of all the absurd things that ever I heard 
tell of! Who would have believed that our staid old 
maid aunt would have been guiltj^ of answering a matri- 
monial advertisement ? 

Mary. — Hush! Jack, if you make a noise and spoil 
the fun now, I'll never forgive you. Keep your head 
still, and don't fidget so. 

Aunt Mattie [^sloivly walking down the path — solilo- 
quizing]. — Eight o'clock ! It struck just as I started out. 
He ought to be here. Why does he tarry ? If he aint 
punctual I'll give him the mitten. I swow I will! Dear 
gracious ! what a sitivation to be in ! Me, at my time 
of life ! though, to be shure, I haint so old as — as I might 
be. The dew's a-falling, and I shall get the rheumatiz 
in these thin shoes, if he don't come quick. What if 
Jack and Mar}/ should git hold of this.? I never should 
hear the last of it! Never! I wouldn't have 'em know 
it for a thousand dollars ! Goodness me ! What if it 
should be the deacon ? Them children of his'n is dread- 
ful youngsters ; but, the Lord helping me, I'd try to train 
'em up in the way they should go. Hark I is that him 
a-cominof ? No ; it's a toad hopping through the carroi; 



STANDAED DIALOGUES 101 

bed. My soul and bod}^ ! what if he should want to kiss 
me? I'll chew a clove for fear he should. I wonder if 
it would be properous to let him ? But then, I s'pose if 
it's the deacon I couldn't help myself. He's an awful 
cZeetarmined man ; and if I couldn't help it I shouldn't 
be to blame I Deary me 1 how I trimble ! There he 
comes ! I hear his step ! What a tall man ! 'Taint the 
deacon I He's got a shawl on ! Must be the new 
schoolmaster ! he wears a shawl ! [^ man approaches. 
Miss Mattie goes up to him cautiously.'] Is this Mr. 

c. a.? 

C. G._Yes ; it is. Is this Miss M. G. ? ' 

Aunt M. — It is. Dear sir, I hope you wont think me 
bold and unmaidenly in coming out here all alone in the 
dark to meet you ? 

C. G. — Never ! Ah, the^ happiness of this moment I 
For forty years I have been looking for thee 1 [_Futs his 
arm around her.] 

Aunt M. — Oh, dear me! don't! don't! my dear sir! 
I aint used to it ! and it aiut exactly proper out here in 
this old garden ! It's a dreadful lonely spot, and if peo- 
ple should see us they might talk. 

C. G.— Let 'em talk! They'll talk still more when 
you and I are married, I reckon. Lift your vail and let 
me see your sweet face. 

Aunt M. — Yes, if you'll remove that hat and let me 
behold your countenance. 

C. G. — Now, then ; both together. 

[^Aunt M. throws hack her vail. G. G. removes his 
hat. They gaze at each other a moment in utter 
silence.] 

Aunt M. — Good gracious airth! 'tis brother Cyrus 1 

C. G. — Jubiter Ammon ! 'tis sister Martha! 

Aunt M. — Oh, my soul and body, Cyrus Gordon! 
Who'd ever a-thought of you, at your time of life, cut- 
ting up such a caper as this ? You old, bald-headed, 
graj^-whiskered man ! Forty years old ! My gracious I 
You were fifty-nine last July 1 

C. G. — Well, if I am, you're two year older. So it's 
as broad as 'tis long ! 

Aunt M. — Why I thought shure it was Deacon Good- 
rich that advertised. C. G. stands for Calvin Goodrich 



102 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

C. G. — Yes; and it stands for Cyrus Gordon, too. 
And Deacon Goodrich was married last night to Peggy 
Jones. 

Aunt M. — That snub-nosed, red-haired Peggy Jones ! 
He'd ort to be flayed alive ! Married agin ! and his wife 
not hardly cold ! Oh, the desatefulness of men ! Thank 
Providence ! I haint tied to one of the abominable sect I 

C. G. — Well, Martha, we're both in the same boat. If 
you wont tell of me, I wont of you. But it's a terrible 
disappointment to me, for I sarting thought M. G. meant 
Marion Giles, the pretty milliner. 

Aunt M. — Humph! What an old goose 1 She 
wouldn't look at you! I heerd her lafflng at your 
swaller-tailed coat, when you come out of meeting last 
Sunday. But I'm ready to keep silence if you will. 
Gracious I if Jack and Mary should get wind of this, 
shouldn't we have to take it ? 

C. G.— Hark! what's that? 

[ Voice behind the lilac-bush sings^ : 

"Oh, there's many a bud the cold frost will nip, 
And there's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip." 

Aunt. M. — That's Jack's voice ! Goodness me I Let 
us scoot for home I 

Jaok. — Did he kiss you. Aunt Mattie ? 

Mary. — Do you like the smell of cloves, Uncle Cyrus ? 

C. G — Confound you both! If I had hold of ye I'd 
tet you know if I like the smell of cloves, and birch, too. 
[^Curtain falls.'] 



CHANGING SERVANTS. 

CHAEACTERS. 

BiR William, a crusty master. John, a faithful servant. 
George, his waiting boy. Bob, a servant recently hired. 



Sir William [^seated, with George standing]. — George, 
have yo'i seen any thing of John this morning ? 
George. — Yes, sir; he is at work in the garden. 
Sir Wm. — I wonder if he has attended to the horses ? 



STAND AKD DIALOGUES 103 

George. — I suppose so, sir, for he has just come in 
from the stables. 

Sir. Wm. — Tell him to come in. I want to talk with 
him. 

George. — I will, sir. [Exit.'] 

Sir Wm. [^John comes in']. — John, did you feed the 
horses ? 

John. — Yes, sir, and watered and curried them. 

Sir Wm. — Well, you always do either too much or 
too little. You ought to have spent the time in the 
garden that you occupied rubbing the skin of the poor 
creatures. Don't you know you are too strong to curry 
a horse ? 

John. — But, if you please, sir, don't you recollect 
you told me yesterday, you would turn me off if I ne- 
glected to curry the horses another morning ? 

Sir Wm. — Oh, pshaw! That's another subject alto- 
gether. Tell me whether you fed them corn or oats. 

John. — Which did 3^ou want them to have ? 

Sir Wm. — Come, sir ! Can't you answer my question 
without asking half a dozen others ? Did you give 
them hay or corn ? 

John. — No, sir. 

Sir Wm. — Well, that is a satisfactory answer, indeed 1 
Tell me what you mean b}^ "no, sir." ? 

John. — I mean that I didn't give them hay nor corn. 

Sir Wm. — Then what did you give them ? 

John. — Well, sir, I fed them oats. 

Sir Wm. — Well, you could have done half a day's work 
while you were answering me a simple question. But 
I'll bet the lazy fellow didn't give them any salt with it. 

John. — Why, no, sir ; who ever heard of feeding salt 
with oats? 

Sir Wm. — Oh, you are so provoking I I'll have no 
more of your impudence, sir. Tell me why you didn't 
ask me what you should feed the horses. 

John. — Because, sir, when I ask you how any thing 
shall be done, you always quarrel with me for pestering 
you. 

Sir. Wm. — Just listen at the impudent fellow ! Don't 
you know 3^ou never do any thing as I want it ? 

John. — Yes, sir; and it is just because you never 



104 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

choose to be pleased with what I do. If I give the 
horses corn, you want them to have oats ; and if I give 
ihem oats, you want them to have corn. If I give them 
salt, you quarrel ; and if I donH give it to them, yon 
quarrel. 

Sir Wm. — The mischief I I'll not be talked to in this 
way by my own servants ! Get out of my house, and 
I'll see if I can't get some one that will obey my orders. 
\_John starts.'] Hold on ! Where are you going ? 

John. — To see if I can please you once. \_Starts.'] 

Sir Wm. — Comeback! \_Stops.'] Get out! \^Starts 
again.'] Come back, I say ! Let me hire you over. 
Maybe you'll suit me better next time. Will you 
promise to please me ? 

John. — Will you promise to be pleased with me ? 

SirWm. — How's that? No! What makes you ask me 
that ? Begone, sir ! \_Starts.] Come back ! Come 
back ! I want to tell you something. [ Turns round.] 

John. — What is it, sir ? 

Sir Wm. — Nothing. \_John goes out. George comes in.'] 
George, where's that fellow Bob I hired the other day : 
Tell him to bring me my tea forthwith, immediately. 
[^George goes out and returns.] 

George. — Master, Bob's asleep in the kitchen, an<! 
when I shake him he doesn't do nothing but grunt. 

Sir Wm. — Wake up the lazy villain, and tell him I 
am waiting for my tea. {^George goes out.] What righl 
has he to get sleepy when I need him ? \_Bol) comes in 
an awkward felloio.] What do you mean, sir, b^ 
being sleep}^ when I send for you ? Where's my tea I 
Wont you answer me ? Where's my tea? 

Bob. — Faith, sir, I don't know. 

Sir Wm. — Why, didn't I order you to bring it? 

Bob. — Yes, sir ; but indeed I didn't see any thing of it. 

Sir Wm. — Why, where did you expect to find it, block- 
head ? 

Bob. — Yes, sir ; I looked under the cellar steps, and 
about and about, and I didn't see a bit of tea nor a 
blockhead. 

Sir Wm. — Well, never mind the tea just now. Tell 
me what you have been doing all the evening. 

Bob. — Hunting the granary keys, sir. 



STANDAED DIALOGUES 105 

Sir Wm. — And where did yoa expect to find them, 
pray? 

Bob. — Yes, sir ; I looked down in the cellar awhile, 
and I thought I saw a little hole sticking in the wall 
with a little peg in it. I pulled the peg out to see if the 
keys were not in there, and lo ! and behold I I found I 
had pulled the stopper out of your old " redeye.^^ 

Sir Wm. — Wh}^ you impudent rascal ! Pull the stop- 
per out of my best whisky ? 

Bob. — Please, sir, it was all through mistake ; entirely 
so. I thought it was a hole in the wall. As soon as I 
found out what had happened, I tried to put the stopper 
in again right quick, but I couldn't exactly find the 
place it had come out, and it wouldn't go in anywhere 
else. 

Sir Wm. — So you have been drunk all evening off my 
whisky, have you ? Why didn't you tell me of the 
mischief you had done ? 

Bob. — Faith, sir, I thought of asking you down to 
drink with me ; but then I thought you were so plagued 
selfish you wouldn't come no how. 

Sir Wm. — And I suppose you had fine drinking with 
yourself, did you ? 

Bob. — Well, no. Not exactly by myself, either. You 
see I waited awhile for somebody to come along to drink 
with me, and the more I waited the less they came ; so 
I thought I would go out and hunt some one, and the 
first person I met was a parcel of hogs, and every one, 
as they passed, said '' bosh!" by which I understood 
them to mean they would like to take a dram ; so I gave 
them all a drink apiece, and you ought to have seen the 
little pig-a-wiggles, how they shaked their little tails ; 
and the old mamma, she's as drunk as a hog. 

Sir Wm. — Well, Bob, this is a pretty piece of business 
I will settle with you for it directly. Go up stairs now, 
and see if that man who came in last night is ready for 
breakfast. Move oK 

Bob [goiJig']. — Yes, sir; if I can find the door. But 
please, sir, recollect it was all a mistake. I thought it 
was a hole in the wall. [Goes and returns.'] 

Sir Wm. — Did you see the man, Bob ? 

Bob. — No, sir j I was so sleepy. 



106 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

SiE Wm.— Well, did you hear any thing of him ? 

Bob. — Oh ! I have a ringing and singing in my ears. 

Sir Wm. — Well, for goodness' sake. Bob, tell me 
whether the man was dead or alive. 

Bob. — I expect he was. 

Sir Wm. — Was what, blockhead ? 

Bob. — Why, dead or alive, sir. 

Sir Wm. — Bob, if you don't want to be kicked out of 
tlie house tell me what the man was doing ? 

Bob. — Yes, sir ; he was standing on his head, asleep. 
He sent you his kindest regards, and said he hoped you 
wouldn't quarrel quite so loud. That he would like to 
get his nap out before he went to sleep. 



THE REHEARSAL. 

CHARACTEES. 
Alfred Smith. John Clarke. * 



Scene. — A school-room. 

Alfred \_walks on to the stage and commences to speah] 

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears ; 
I come to bury Csesar, not to praise him. 
The evil that men do, lives after them ; 
The good is often interred with their bones ; 
So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus 
Hath told you Csesar was ambitious ; 
If it were so, it was a grievous fault, 
And grievously hath Caesar answered it. 
Here, under leave of Brutus, and the rest, 
^'For Brutus is an honorable man ; 
So are they all, all honorable men ;) 
Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral. 



• Th°. names can be changed '■^ suit the persons speaking. 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 107 

[^Comes to a stop and after studying a short time 
repeats'] : — 

Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral. 

[^Stops again. John enters.'] 

John. — Alfred, stand back and let me speak. You 
have forgotten j^our speech. 

\^Alfred goes to back of stage and John commences.] 

The loss of a firm national character, or the degra- 
dation of a nation's honor, is the inevitable prelude to 
her destruction. Behold, the once proud fabric of a 
Roman empire — an empire carrying its arts and arms 
into every part of the eastern continent ; the monarchs 
of mighty kingdoms dragged at the wheels of her 
triumphant chariots ; her eagle waving over the ruins 
of desolated countries. Where is her splendor, her 
wealth, her power, her glory ? Extinguished for ever. 
Her mouldering temples, the mournful vestiges of her 
former grandeur, afford a shelter to her muttering 
Monks. \_Gomes to a stop and after studying a short 
time, repeats]: — Afford a shelter to her muttering 
Monks \_Stops again.] 

Alfred. — Ah, ha ! Guess you don't remember your 
speech much better than I did mine ! We will both 
have to study hard, or we will not get along very 
well at the exhibition to-morrow night. 

John. — That's very true. 

Alfred. — It would be an awful bore on us if we 
should come on the stage and forget our speeches. 

eToHN. — But, you know, we will have a prompter who 
will help us through if we stick. 

Alfred. — I know, but I do not want to trust to a 
prompter. I want to have my speech perfectly commit- 
ted, and speak it without any help. 

John. — I really don't see any use in these exhibitions. 
I think our teacher might have us emplo3"ed in some 
other way that would be of more use to us. 

Alfred. — I can not agree with you. The object of 
these exhibitions is to enable us to speak in public. 
Before I commenced to learn to speak in this waj^ and 
before we commenced to debate, I could say nothing in 
public. Now I pride mj-self on being able to get up 
before a large audience and say a few words " off-hand'* 



108 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

as we call it. I think it is of incalculable benefit to a 
person to be able to do this. 

John. — Pooh ! it is nothing to get up at singing 
school or at Lyceum meeting, and say a few words, but 
it would be an entirely different matter if you were in a 
strange place and before a strange crowd — you would 
find it more difficult than to make a speech and spread 
yourself, as you sometimes do in debate. 

Alfred. — I agree with you tliat it would be harder to 
speak before an audience of strangers than it would be 
to speak to persons you are well acquainted with ; but, 
with practice, 3^ou know, we can accomplish any thing. 
But, John, do you know that Mr. (county super- 
intendent) is in the neighborhood, and will be here at 
the exhibition to-morrow evening ? 

John. — Really ! will he ? How did you hear that ? 

Alfred. — I saw Mr. (tJie teacher) this evening 

as I was coming here, and he told me. 

John. — Well, if he is coming we will have to carry 
ourselves straight, and act our prettiest. I must say 
that I'd as lief he'd stay away. I shall feel somewhat 
scared if such an important personage is present. 

Alfred. — Mr. , and Mr. , and Mr. , and 

Mr. {directors) will be here, too. Will you not 

feel afraid to speak before them ? 

John. — No, not much ; I have seen them often and do 
not feel afraid of them. I know they are learned and 
intelligent men, but still they aie not great men like 

Mr. {superintendent), and then they knov/ that our 

advantages are not great and will not expect as much 

of us as it is probable Mr. {sup>erLntendent) will. 

But I have heard some persons say that you will be 
called on for an extemporaneous speech. If you should 
be, what will you do ? 

Alfred. — Make the attempt, of course. 

John. — Ho ho ! I wouldn't ! I'd decline. Why you'll 
make a fool of yourself if you try. 

Alfred. — I don't care. Of course they will not ex- 
pect much of me, and even if I do not get along very 
well, I can have it to say I made the attempt, and after 
having made the first attempt it will not be so hard to 
make the second. 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 109 

John, — Suppose j^ou step out, now, and give us an 
extemporaneous speech. 

Alfred, — Well — really — I don't know what to say. 

John, — Ha, ha ! That's the way it will be to-morrow 
evening. You'll not think of any thing to say, and 
when it comes to the point you'll back down. 

Alfred, — No, sir ; I'll make the attempt, if I should 
only say ten words, 

John. — Well, suppose you saj^ ten words now. 

Alfred, — I'll tell you what I'll do. If I am to be 
asked for an off-hand speech to-morrow night I will say 
something now that will bear repeating, 

John. — Well go ahead. 

Alfred. — Ladies and gentlemen, you know I am no 

speech-maker. I am only a school-boy of number . 

But why may we not have great orators and great 

statesmen in number ? I believe there are smart 

boys here — some perhaps as smart as were numbered 
in the schools to which Henr}^ Clay and Daniel Webster 
and Thomos H. Benton belonged. We are a great 
people — and [Pawse]. 

John. — Stuck, are you ? 

Alfred. — No, I'm waiting for a cheer. 

John. — Well, here it is. ^Cheers.'] 

Alfred [^continues']. — There have been a great many 
people in this country. 

John. — Ha! ha! ha I 

Alfred. — I mean there have been a great many great 
people in this countr}'^, and why may we not have a 
great man in number ? 

John. — That's what I want to know ? 

Alfred. — Don't interrupt me, and I'll say something 
grand after while. If Daniel Webster made a big 
dictionary and a spelling-book why ma}^ not 

John. — 'Twasn't Dan made the big dictionary and 
the spelling-book — 'twas Noah. 

Alfred. — Oh, so it was ! Well, if Noah Webster 
made a big dictionarj", and if Daniel Webster was great 
on speech making, ma}" we not find a Daniel or a Noah 
in this school ? 

John. — Yes; there's a Daniel in our school — Dan 
19 



110 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

Jones. He's a smart fellow when it comes to sock 
ball. 

Alfred. — Ladies and gentlemen — My name is 
Norval 

John. — Hold on, old fellow ! We want something 
original. 

Alfred. — We are but a band of small boys ; not very 
small either, we feel pretty large — but I feel sure the 
time will come when we will be big boys, and go home 
with the girls from singing school just as [introduce 
names to suW] Jim Wilson and John Harrison and Sam 
Hayes do now. \_Alfred applauds tremendously.'] And 
the time will come yes — ladies and gentlemen — the time 
will come when the little girls of our school will spread 
themselves and feel as big as [introduce names to suit'] 
Sallie Jones and Jane White and Suzy Wilson do now. 
And, ladies and gentlemen, when that time does come, 
Sallie Jones and Jane White and Suzy Wilson will be 
considerably up in years. Yes, Mr. President and 
fellow-citizens, they will be, to speak plainly, old maids \ 
or if they are not old maids who knows but their names 
may be Sallie Wilson or Jane Harrison or Suz}^ Hayes 
and perhaps they will be thumping little boys and little 
girls and sending them off to school just as certain 
little boys and little girls are being thumped and sent 
off to school now. [Alfred applauds and. shouts "good, 
good /"] Somebody says that the world moves, and I 
believe it's a fact. The people in the world keep moving 
too. One man goes up like a rocket and creates a 
noise in the world and makes a flash, and then he goes 
out and all is darkness. But they don't all go up like 
a rocket and then die out. Some shine on, and shine 
on, and shine on, and the longer they shine the brighter 
they shine. That's the way the boys of number in- 
tend to shine. [Alfred applauds and shouts " thaVs so .'"] 

Now if I was as old as Mr. , and Mr. , and Mr. 

, [naming some of the young men present] I'll tell 

you what I would do. I'd get married I I don't know 
wh}^ it is that some persons will live on and live on and 
not get married. I don't think that's right! Do you? 
The Bible is a good book, and the Bible says people 
ought to get married. Now if I was a young lady and 
if such a fellow as Jim Wilson or John HarHso" o** 



I 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 111 

Sam Hayes was coming to see me, and taking me home 
from singing school and if he wouldn't propose, I'll tell 
you how I'd bring him to the point. I'd tell him that I 
thought a great deal of John Clark or Alfred Smith, 
that they were two very suiart young men, and that if 
they were just a little older I would marry one of them. 

John. — Ha! ha! ha! I don't think that would 
frighten them into a proposal. 

Alfred. — Ladies and gentlemen [introduce names 
to suif] Mr. Jackson, and Mr. Powell, and Mr. Adams 
and Mr. Jones are present, and as they are learned and 
intelligent men I had better not say any thing more, or 
they may lose their good opinion of me. Haven't I 
made a pretty long speech ? I didn't know what I 
would say when I got up, but I was determined to say 
something. You all know it isn't right for a boy to 
have too much brass in his face, but I think you wilJ 
all agree with me that he ought to have enough to at- 
tempt to make a speech w^hen called upon. And now 
having said my say, I make my best bow and retire. 

John \_applauds.'] — Instead of giving us ten words yov 
have given us quite a long speech. You have dom? 
yourself credit, Alfred, and if you do as well to-morrow 

night, Mr. {su'perintendeiit) will open bis eyes in 

astonishment. 

Alfred. — Thank you, John. But come, let \is be off 
and prepare for rehearsing that " Contentious CQCftuau- 
nity" dialogue. 

John. — All right — come ahead. \_Exeunt.'] 
[ Curtain falls.'] 



DEAF UNCLE ZED. 



Jack Fairweather [enters with letter']. — Mrs. Cather- 
ine Lavina Fairweather ; that must mean the old lady 
herself Yes, sir-e-e it's for her ; looks like it might 
contain a bit of the sentimental. Plenty of room for it 
in that dainty envelope. Ha, ha ! 

Mrs. Fairweather. — Jack, what are j^ou talking 
»bouf ? What's that ? Come here, sir. 



112 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

Jack. — Oh, I've just brought you a "billy-d'icks." 

Mrs. F.— a what ? 

Jack. — No, a " billj^-ducks," that's what my educated 
sister Sophronia Janette Amerette calls 'em. 

Mrs. F. — Explain yourself; how dare you talk thus 
to your mother ? 

Jack. — Reckon that's the Latin of it — here it is in 
English. {^Holding up the letter.^ 

Mrs. F. [taking the letter^. — A letter, you young ras- 
cal. Post-marked Manchester, too. It is from your 
Uncle Zedekiah Fairweather. [Proceeds to open it.'] 
Well that's good. I only hope the old curmudgeon has 
opened his heart and sent us some of the needful. 

Jack. — So do I. Hello, Tim [enter Tim] I here's a 
letter from Uncle Zed. 

Tim. — Who cares ! 

Jack. — But there's lots of money in it. 

Tim.— Three cheers. Bully for Uncle Zed I 

Jack. — Now we'll get our new skates. 

Tim. — And go to the show and ride the elephant. 

Both Boys. — Hurrah ! Hurrah ! 

Mrs. F. — Hush boys, don't be quite so fast. Call 
your sister. 

Jack. — And Lucy, too ? 

Mrs. F. — No difference about her. 

[Jack goes out — enters with the girls.] 

Janette. — What do you want, mother ? 

Mrs. F. — rListen, children. I have received a letter 
from your Uncle Zedekiah. You know I wrote to him 
some time since, asking him for some mone}^ which we 
need very badly. He has plenty, and I hoped when be 
heard the story of our needs, he would open his miserly 
old heart and lend a helping hand to the family of his 
only brother. Here is his reply : — My dear sister. I 
have just received yours of the 24th inst. My health 
is in a very precarious condition ; my hearing is also 
somewhat impaired ; nevertheless I have decided to visit 
you. If my life is spared, you may expect me to arrive 
next Tuesday, and by my presence I will endeavor to 
cheer your lonely home. Until then, adieu. Your 
brother, Zedekiah. 

Janette. — Oh! horrible 1 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 113 

Jack. — Why, sis, aiiit he going to bring us presents ? 

Tim. — Hurrah, we'll have capital fun. 

Janette. — Oh, my poor nerves ! Only think of 
screaming at the top of one's voice for weeks. I sup- 
pose that he is as deaf as a post. 

Lucy. — That's his misfortune, not his fault. 

Mrs. r. — Hush, Miss Impertinence. Now, children, 
we must make the best of it. 

Janette. — Do write to him not to come. 

Jack. — Guess that wont do much good now. This is 
Tuesday, he will be here to-day. You can save your 
postage, and tell him when he arrives. 

Tim. — Hope he will come, and wear the same suit he 
did six years ago. 'Twould be better than a show. 

Mrs. F. — Now boys, listen to me. Your uncle will 
doubtless arrive soon. There's no help for it, and, as I 
said before, we must make the best of it. He's rich, and 
we are poor. We must be civil to him while he lives, or 
we will never be benefited by his death. 

Jack. — And maybe not then. 

Mrs. F. — Go, now, boys, put on your best suits, and 
go to the depot to meet him. I will follow you as soon 
as I set things to right here. \_Exit hoys.'] Lucy, Lucy. 
W here is that numbskull ? 

Lucy. — Yes — ma'am. 

Mrs. F. — I have called you half a dozen times. Go 
arrange the east room for our uncle. 

Lucy. — Yes, ma'am. \_Exit Lucy.] 

Mrs. F. — Now, daughter, compose yourself; do only 
win the favor of your uncle, and your fortune's made. 

Janette. — Oh, the dreadful old-fashioned, cross, deaf, 
old creature ! How can we have him around here. 
You know he will be in the parlor, whether he is wanted 
or not. Then, too, he will be bound to know every 
word that is said. All deaf folks do I Oh, I shall faint 
if Don Pedro happens to meet him. 

Mrs. F. — Cheer up, my daughter. Perhaps he will 
keep his room ; 3'ou know his health is poor. 

Janette. — That's all the consolation I have. 

Mrs. F. — Hope for the best, Janette Ameretti, my 
dear. But I must be going ; it's nearly train time 
Look bright when we come in; that's a good girl I 



114 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

\^Enter Lucy.'] Well, miss, have you done as I ordered 
you? 

Lucy. — Yes, ma'am. 

Mrs. F.— Did you light the fire ? 

Lucy. — Yes, ma'am. 

Mrs. F. — Did you dust the furniture? 

Lucy. — Yes, ma'am. 

Mrs. F. — Did 3^0 u air the room ? 

Lucy. — Yes, ma'am. 

Mrs. F. — Did you arrange that arm-chair? 

Lucy. — Yes, ma'am. 

Mrs. F. — And prepare the dressing-gown ? 

Lucy. — Yes, ma'am. 

Mrs. F. — And the slippers ? 

Lucy. — Yes, ma'am.* 

Mrs. F. — And the smoking-cap ? 

Lucy. — Yes, ma'am. 

Mrs. F. — Very well ; now you keep out of the way 
ontil called for. \_Exit Mrs. F.] 

Janette. — What's to become of us ! Must we submit 
to be bored to death with that crusty, cross, deaf, old 
bachelor ? 

Lucy. — Have you seen him lately, Miss Janette ? 

Janette. — No, and I wish I could be spared the in- 
fliction now. 

Lucy. — He may prove pleasanter than you imagine 
him to be. We should not be too rash in our judgment 
of others. 

Janette. — Oh, you'd better talk to me, Miss Charity ; 
you are always setting yourself as a model of perfec- 
tion. No doubt you will do all you can to get my uncle's 
money. It's plain to me that's all you are after now. 

Lucy. — Oh, Jennie, how can you speak so ? \_Exit.'] 

Janette [alone]. — Only think of me, Sophronia Jan- 
ette Amerette Fairweather, primped up in the parlor, 
screaming at the top of my voice, " I hope you are well, 
Uncle Zedekiah," only I don't. Oh, my poor lungs. 
Well there's one consolation ; one can say just what 
she chooses about him, and he will never know it. But 
here they come. \_Enter boys with large trunk.] 

Jack. — Gracious me I put it down. I'm all out of 
breath. 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 115 

Tim. — Oh, sis, you ought to see him ; here he goes ! 

[ Walks across the stage imitating Uncle Zedekiah.'] 

Janette. — Where is he ? 

Jack. — Oh, he is coming with mother. He can't 
walk very fast, you know. 

Janette. — Suppose he has the gout, too ? 

Tim. — Oh, sis, I should like to see him dance a jig 
with you. 

Janette. — I onl}^ wish I were rich, he would dance 
his jigs alone, and in some other localit}^ I imagine. 

Jack. — You had better begin to look pleasant. He 
will be here soon. I think from the appearance of his 
trunk, his presence will be considerable, if not more. 

Tim. — Yes, we will all enjoy it muchly. Sis looks the 
very conglomeration of sweetness now. 

Janette. — There, there's the bell now. Lucy will 
open the door of course ! [Exit Janette.^ 

\_Enter Mrs. F., with Uncle Z. leaning on her arm, 
followed by Lucy, with numerous bundles. Boys 
remain seated on the trunk. Mrs. F. speaks very 
loud.'] 

Mrs. F. — There, my dear brother, we have arrived at 
last. 

IJncle Z.— What, ha I 

Mrs. F. — I say we are at home. 

Jack. — And wish you were too. 

Uncle Z. — Please speak a little louder. 

Mrs. F. — Pray be seated in this chair ; Lucy, wheel it 
around here. You must be fatigued with such a journey ? 

Uncle Z.— Ha? 

Mrs. F. [^sci^eams out]. — Fatigued, tired, I say ? 

Uncle Z. — I don't just hear right ? 

Mrs. F. — You must be tired after your long ride ? 

Tim. — I wonder where Noah was old feller, when you 
took that coat out of the ark ? 

Uncle Z. — Ha ? [Seating himself in the arm-chair,] 

Mrs. F. — He was asking 3^ou to. give him your coat, 
to hang up for jou in the hall. 

Uncle Z. — Give him — what ? 

Mrs. F. — Your great-coat. 

UrcLE Z. — Can't spare it yet awhile, young man. 



116 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

Seems to me if you would go honestly to work, you 
might earn one for yourself. Here, my little girl [to 
Lucy'], wont you help me take this coat off. \_Lucy helps 
him.'] 

Mrs. F. — You didn't understand Timothy, uncle I 

Uncle Z. — Oh, yes. 

Mrs. F. — Now, boys, hold your tongues. [Boys tak^ 
hold of their tongues.] Behave yourselves, I say, or you 
will spoil all. 

Jack. — He's most bare-footed on top of his head, 
aren't he, Tim ? 

Tim. — Shouldn't woxider. Let's recommend him to 
use " Spaulding's glue ;" that will bring har out, I guess. 

Uncle Z. [to boys]. — What are j^ou saying ? 

Tim. — It's a fine day, sir, but likely to rain. 

Uncle Z. — Oh yes, yes. 

Mrs. F. — Now, my dear brother, do try to be com- 
fortable. Don't mind those boys. You must see mj 
charming daughter. 

Uncle Z. — Ha? 

Mrs. F. — Janette j^merette will be delighted to see 
you. 

Jack. — In Ballehack, or some other place as faraway. 

Mrs. F. — Hush, Jack. She was so happy to hear 
you were coming to stay awhile with us. Indeed, she 
was quite agitated. 

Uncle Z. [to Lucy]. — My little girl, will you please 
put that chair up this way ? My foot pains me most 
dreadful bad. 

Mrs. F. — Set it up here. Move, I say. [Lucy obeys.] 

Uncle Z. — There, thank you. 

Tim. — Jack, I say, aint he what Dickens might call a 
''fine figure of a man." Bow to the aged. [Boys bow. 
Uncle Z. looking around, sees them.] 

Uncle Z. — Seems to me you are rather late making 
your manners, boys ; but it's better late than never. 

Mrs. F. — But better never late. Bo3^s are so thought- 
less. [To boys.] It's lucky he doesn't hear you, my lads. 
If 3^ou don't behave, I will send you out of the room in 
disgrace. 

Boys. — What ! send us from our uncle ? 

Jack. — You could not be so cruel, mother 1 If I 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 117 

only had an organ, he would make such a nice monkey 
Wouldn't we go traveling ! 

Uncle Z.— Ha ? 

Mrs. F. — He says it's pleasant traveling with guod 
company. 

Uncle Z. — No doubt, no doubt ! 

Jack. — Hurrah ! Mother, you're trump I 

Mrs. F. — Lucy, Lucy ? 

Lucy. — Yes, ma'am. 

Mrs. F.— Go call Janette. Uncle, do take some of 
this nice red wine, it will strengthen 3^ou. 

Uncle Z. — Ha ! What did you say ? 

Mrs. F. — Wine, to strengthen you. 

Uncle Z. — I never taste liquor. 

Mrs. F. [to boys']. — The old curmudgeon, when I 
bought it on purpose for him. 

[Enter Lucy and Janette.'] 

Mrs. F. — Brother Zedekiah, this is your affectionate 
niece. 

[Uncle Z. rises, puts out his hand. Janette puth 
her arms around his neck.] 

Janette. — My dear, good uncle, I have been dying 
to see you ! 

Uncle Z.— What, ha ? 

Janette. — I have been dying to see you. 

Uncle Z. — What, dying ^ What appears to be the 
matter ? 

Jack. — Upon confounded consideration, I have con- 
cluded that her pride is wounded, and mortification has 
sot in. 

Uncle Z.— Ha? 

Mrs. F. — Jack, leave the room. [ To uncle.] He 
says he is glad 3^ou have come to cheer his sister. 

Uncle Z. — No doubt ! no doubt ! Janette, you've 
been sick, have you? You don't exercise enough. 
That's the way with you yo-ungsters now-a-days. 

Tim. — Shall I hit him, sis ? 

Uncle Z. — But while I stay, you've got to jump 
around smart and wait on me. Maybe it will do you 
some good. 

Janetie. — It will afford me much pleasure to serve 
you, dear nncle I 



118 . STANDARD DIALOGUES 

Jack. — " Over the left," 3^ou know. 

Uncle Z. — Speak a little louder ? 

Janette. — You can't please me better than to let me 
wait on you ! 

Uncle Z. — Oh, I understand ; then I will let you 
do it. I always try to please the ladies. Just hand 
me that bundle. 

Janette [to Lucy']. — Get that bundle. [Lucy hands 
the bundle to Uncle Z., who begins to open it.] 

Jack. — Audience please give contention. The inform- 
pince is about to commence. 

[Uncle Z. takes out an immense ear4rumpet, and 
puts it up to his ear. Boys sing out .-] 

'' The elephant now goes 'round, the band begins to 
play, the boys about the monkey's cage had better keep 
away." 

Uncle Z. — Maybe this will be some help to us. 

Janette. — Oh, I don't mind speaking out loud to 
you. Mother, do take him to his room. 

Uncle Z. [hands bundle to Janette]. — Now do this up, 
and put it away. 

[Janette hands it to Lucy. Jack takes it, puts 
it on a cane over his shoulder, and promenades 
behind Uncle Z. Boor-bell rings.] 

Janette. — Oh, horror, mother! That's Don Pedro 
nc'W. Do take him away. [Lucy starts to the door.] 
Wait a minute, you minx. 

[Boys begin to gather up bundles.] 

Uncle Z. [to Janette], — Can't you get a pillow now 
jmd put to my back, Janette ? 

Mrs. F. — Wont 3^ou retire, uncle, you must be tired ? 

Uncle Z. [using the ear-trumpet].— Ra? 

Mrs. F. — Wont you retire, you must be tired ? 

Uncle Z. — Of course I'm tired, but will be very com- 
fortable if I only get a pillow. 

Mrs. F. — I think 3'ou'd best go to bed ! 

Uncle Z. — Oh, no ; not to bed these three hours yd ! 
It's earl}^, yet ! [Bell rings again.] 

Mrs. F. — Well, then, step out in the other room and 
have some tea. 

Unclb Z. — Some what f 



STANDAED DIALOGUES 119 

Mrs. F. — Some tea. 

Uncle Z. — Well, yes. Bring it in here. [Bell rings."] 

Janette. — Oh, what shall I do. Uncle, dear uncle, 
the tea is in the other rooni. Come and get it, wont 
you ? [Bell rings. Exit Lucy.'\ 

Jack. — We might ride him out on this ane, Tim, 
free gratis for nothing, wont cost him two cents. 

Janette. — I wish he had some sense. 

Tim. — I wish we had some of his c-e-n-t-s. Yes, and 
dollars, too. 

Mrs. F. — Come, uncle. 

[Exit all except Janette. Enter Lucy with a dandy. 
Lucy retires.'] 

Don Pedro. — Bon soir, mademoiselle. 

Janette. — Tres bien, monsieur. I am so glad you 
have come ! 

Don. — I am delighted to see mon cher looking so well, 
ce soir. [ They sit down on a sofa.] 

Janette. — This is a delightful evening I 

Don. — Yes, very. The moon looks down in splendah. 

Janette. — Yes. It reminds me of the words of the 
poet : " The moon shines bright." 

Don. — Bon, bon. You have such a magnificent bump 
of memory, mon cher ! Wont you sing " Meet me by 
moonlight alone, love?" 

Janette [affectedly]. — Oh, dear, I can't. I have such 
a cold. 

Don. — Oh, those lovely strains ! It would fill my 
soul with joy to hear your sweet voice 1 

Janette. — Indeed, I can't. 

Don. — Please just try, for my sake, Janette, dear ? 

Janette. — Well, then, for your sake, remember I 
[Janette sings. Uncle Z. comes hobbling into the 
room, followed by the rest of the family. She stoj)s 
singing — looks confused.] 

Mrs. F. [screams]. — Here, this way, this door, this 
door 

Uncle Z. [making himself comfortable]. — Oh, this 
Joes very well. 

Don. — 'Pon my word, now, who's that ? 

Both Boys. — Put him out, put him out. 

Janette. — Oh, he's an old superannuated Methodist 



120 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

preacher, who once met pa. Ma, do take him to his 
room. This is an imposition. 

Jack. — I sa}^ Mr. Don, don't you want to be intro- 
duced to this here new arrival, just from your town — 
Paris ? Maybe you've met before ? 

Uncle Z. po Lucy']. — My little girl, will you gut me 
the paper ? 

Lucy [handing it to him\ — Yes, sir. 

[ Uncle Z. puts on his glasses, takes some snuff, and 
begins to read.] 

Mrs. F. [speaks through the trumpet]. — Will you go 
to your room ? 

Uncle Z.— What ! Where ! Ha ? 

Mrs. F. — Up stairs to your room. 

Uncle Z. — Oh, don't trouble yourself, I am very com- 
fortable here. But who's this ? you haven't introduced 
me 3^et ? 

Mrs. F. — This is Do' Pedro, Mr. Jones. [^Says Mr 
Jones in a low tone.] 

[Don Pedro bows very low. Uncle Z. shakes his 
hand very hard.] 

Uncle Z — How dy'e do. Your folks all well ? 

Janette. — Oh, I shall faint. 

Don. — Happy to meet you, Mr. Jones I 

Uncle Z. — Ha ? Speak a little louder ? 

Don [speaks through the trumpet]. — Happy to meet 
you, Mr. Jones ! Are you well, Mr. Jones ? 

Uncle Z.— Who ? 

Mrs. F.— Do you know Mr. Jones ? 

Uncle Z. — What do 3^ou mean ? I don't know Jones. 

Don [out of breath]. — Oh I Oh! moncherl He ought 
to be in the lunatic asylum. 

Janette. — Don't talk to him any more. 

Don. — Not if I can avoid it, I do assure you, made- 
moiselle ! 

Mrs. F. — I fear j^ou are exerting yourself too much ? 

Uncle Z. [to Don]. — How's the crops in your section ? 
[Don Pedro looks confused.] 

Jack [aside]. — Every thing's green, I reckon 1 

Uncle Z. — 1 say, young man 

Mrs. F. — This young gentleman lives in the city. 

Uncle Z. — Ha 1 Speak louder. 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 121 

Mrs. F. — Don Pedro lives in the city. 

Uncle Z. — Oh, I understand now ! Your name is 
John, is it ? John Peters ! Well now it appears to me 
I ought to know your folks ? 

Don. — They live in a foreign clime. 

Uncle Z. — Oh, in former times, of course I I knew 
the Peters's down behind old Lancaster, in Pennsyl- 
vany. \^Boy8 laugh heartily.'] 

Janette. — You didn't understand him, sir. 

Uncle Z. — No, no. I don't pretend to mind the 
youngsters ; but 3^our father I dare say, was as honest a 
shoemaker as lived in them parts. Do you follow his 
trade, John ? 

Don. — I am a foreigner, sir ! 

Uncle Z. — A farmer I ah yes. What's the price of 
squashes ? 

Jack [very loud']. — He can tell you that better after 
he offers his head for sale, and somebody bids on it I 
\Janette faints. Don Pedro snatches his hat and 
leaves. General confusion. Curtain falls.] 

Scene 2d. — Mother and daughter seated by a table. 

Janette. — Well, well, something must be done. I 
have endured this as long as I can. Three months to- 
day, since he arrived, and no hope of his leaving yet. 
No compensation for our trouble either. I have sub- 
mitted to mortifications enough. I wont endure it. 

Mrs. F. — Have patience, my child ! Don't be too 
hasty. I don't like the old clod-hopper any better than 
you do, but I have an eye on his money; and if 3^011 are 
not more considerate we shall lose all. 

Janette. — I think our prospects of having any of it 
to lose are not very bright at present. 

Mrs. F. — No ; and all on account of 3'our own folly 
and rashness, I do assure you. If you had acted the 
part that little pauper Lucy has, 3'ou might now stand 
just as high in the estimation of your uncle as she 
does. 

Janette [angrily]. — Don't talk to me about that 
minx. She is always out of the way when she ought 
to be in, and in the way when she ought to be ort. 



122 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

Mrs. F. — Well, we must make the best of it. To 
turn her out of the house would be certain death to all 
our hopes. So you must try and make amends for your 
past bad conduct toward your uncle, and undermine 
his confidence in her as far as possible. That's our only 
hope, now. 

Janette. — Bad conduct, indeed! Who has suffered 
more at his hands than I ? Who has done more to try 
to please the quarrelsome old bachelor than I? Yes, 1 
say who has suffered. Only think of him insulting Don 
Pedro, so that he never entered the house again. Just 
as he was about to propose, too. I say I wont stand it. 
I wish old Zedekiah Fairweather were in the bottom of 
the Mississippi. 

Mrs. F. — So do I, I am sure, but I don't want him to 
take his money with him. I intend to have that. 

\_Enter Uncle Z. fashionably dressed, with traveling 
satchel in hand.'] 

Uncle Z. — You've taken a poor way to obtain it, I fear. 
[_Janette and Mrs. F. scream. Enter the whole 
family.] 

Janette. — Eaves-dropper ! Eaves-dropper I 

Mrs. F. — Hush, Janette. My dear brother — what can 
be the matter ? 

Uncle Z. — Hear, madam. I beg of you to listen to 
me a moment. I am about to take my departure, and 
have come to bid you farewell. 

Mrs. F. — What ! leave us so soon ? Impossible ! 

Uncle Z. — Yes, madam. My baggage has been sent 
to the train, and I must soon follow. 

Janette \^very loud]. — Why did you not tell us ? 

Uncle Z. — Oh, I can hear ver}'^ well. Don't exert 
yourself 

Mrs. F. — Oh — oh — oh, sir — dear uncle, we— we beg 
your pardon. 

Uncle Z. — For your hospitality, accept my sincere 
thanks ; and when your hopeful sons want to go travel- 
ing with a hand-organ and monkey, please call on me, 
and 1 will furnish their outfit. And when they have 
traveled all the country round, and grown old and bald, 
I will recommend the use of " Spauldiug's glue." 
[Boys droj) their heads.] 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 123 

Mrs. F. — Oh, we are undone, we are undone. 

Uncle Z. [to Lucy']. — And to you, my faithful little 
friend, I donate a scholarship in one of our best schools, 
where you can have every advantage, and become fitted 
for the station in life which nature intended you to 
occupy. 

Lucy. — Oh, sir, how can I thank you for your kindness. 

Uncle Z. — But I must not forget my dear niece, who 
has been so deeply injured by the loss of John Peters, 
alias Don Pedro. To compensate her, I give her this 
package [presents a box], which is to be opened after 
my departure. 

Janette. — Oh, my dear, good uncle, 3^our kindness 
quite overcomes me ! Do stay longer with us. 

Uncle Z. — No, I can't now. Come, Lucy, get your 
bonnet, child, we must be going, Good-by, one and all 
[Exit Uncle Z. and Lucy.'] 

Mrs. F. — We are well rid of both of them. What if 
he did hear us ! I knew he would not have it in his 
heart to leave us nothing. The box is quite heavy. 
Open it, quick I 

Boys. — Yes, quick ; you must share with us ? 

Jack. — I knew our time would come. Who cares 

if 

[Janette, after removing many wrappings, holds up 
to view the ear-trumpet. Curtain falls.] 



EaYPTIAN DEBATE. 
Between Hon. Felix Garrote, and Ebenezer Slabside, Esq. 



[Subject of Debate — Who desarves the greatest praise, Kris- 
terfer Kerlumbus for diskiverin' Amerika, or Mr. Washington 
for defendin' on't ? Scene. — Lyceum in, Egypt, Illinois.] 

Hon. Felix Garrote arose : — 

Mr. President, & gentlemens of this here 
Lyceum : Kerlumbus was born in the year 1492, durin* 
the rain of Julius Caesar at Rome, a small town in 
grease, situated on the banks of the Nile, a small creek 



124 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

which takes its rise in the Alps, and flows in a southwest 
course and emties into the gulf of Mexico. Mr. Ker- 
lumbuses parients was pore. His pap was a basket ma- 
ker, and bein' so low in their sarcumstances, they were 
tetotally unable fur to give their orphant son that edu- 
cation which his genius and talent demanded. They 
therefore bound him to a shephurd who sot L >m to 
watchin' swine on the sea-beat shores of the Nile ; and 
it was thar, Mr. President, it was thar, sir, by the corn- 
stalk and rush-light fire, that this immortle youth fust 
larnt to read, write, and syphur, and all the other var- 
ious and useful accomplishments of English and foren 
literature. It was thar, sir, by this corn-stalk and rush- 
light fire, that, readin' the history of Robertson Crusoe, 
it conspired in his youthful breast the seeds of sympathy 
and ambition ; sympathy, sir, to rescue that unfortunate 
hero from his solitary and alone situation on the island 
of Mr. John Fernandez, and return him once more to 
the bosom of his family in Jarmany — ambition, sir, to 
diskiver a island which no white person had ever yit 
diskivered, (except Crusoe,) and he warn't considered 
nobody at home. To place upon the mariner's com- 
pass that island, and tharby render his name immortler. 

He accordin'ly made immediate application to Julius 
Caesar for two canoos and a yawl, eight men, and per- 
visions to last him a two weeks' cruise ; but, sir, he was 
indignantly refused ! He was took up next day — tried 
by a court martial for treason — found guilty, and sen- 
tenced to three months' banishment upon the island of 
Cuba, a small island in the Mediterranean ocean, a 
island at present hankered after by the Southern Con- 
federacy as the seat of government, becase a capital of 
a rival and jealous Confederacy never can exist on the 
same continent with ourn. There must be, gentlemen 
of this here Lyceum, there must be at least a consider- 
able slice of ocean between our capital city and the 
throne of a traitor or tyrant, who would dare to destroy 
the union ! 

But to return to the pint. Kerlumbus were far from 
bein' unintimidated or discouraged, howsumever, by 
this here mean treatment, but on the contrary, he was 
Inspired with increased energy and renewed hopes and 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 125 

ambition — and, sir, I can put into the moutli of mj^ 
hero, tne immortle words whicli Milton put into tlie 
mouth of the Duke of Wellingtown at the siege of Bun- 
ker Hill 



"Once more into the breeches, dear friends, once more." 

When the tarm of his banishment had expired, he re- 
turned to Rome, and found that Caesar had died again, 
and that Alexander the Great had succeeded him. He 
made the same demand of Ellick that he made to Mr. 
Caesar, and met with a similar denial — but finally at 
last, through the intermediation of Cleopatra, (Ellick's 
fust wife,) he succeeded. 

It is onneccessary for me to enter into the detail of 
his outfit and voyage — suffice it to say, as there is no 
needcessity, as I hinted before, for to particiderize on 
the incidental and numerical sarcum stances of his — a — a 
—his blockade — I mean of his a — fleet, suffice it to say, 
as I said before, that after having been absent from his 
Dwn native shores two long weeks, he diskivered, one 
day, from the mast-head, not the long-sought island of 
John Fernandez, Esq., but a severe gail! 1 will not tell 
you how the}' hove to, and how they hove up, and every 
thing of that there kind, but after they had been tossed 
on waves that run mountain gs high, he was at last 
wrecked, and his crew all lost, (except hisself and one 
other man,) and they was throwed upon a state of insen- 
sibility. 

When he come to, he rose up in the majesty of his 
strength and found he was on a island. So he pulled 
out his red cotton palmetto handkercher, tied it onto a 
fish-pole and rared the standard of South Carolina, and 
took formal possession of the territory in the name of 
Alexander the Great, and called it San ^'<2?-vador, in 
honor of Cleopatra's only dater. Now Cleopatra was 
so well pleased with the honor conferred upou her dater, 
that she migrated to this country for to settle. Hence, 
sir, the long line of descendants so distinguished in our 
gelorious countrj^'s history, and known as PATriots 
from the Hebrew varb, Cleopatra. 

Now, sir, having accomplished the great and para- 
mount object of his sub/imary career, he was ready for 
20 



126 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

to die. The natives, therefore, for intrudin' upon thei^ 
sile, took him prisoner, maltreated liim with Carolina 
tar and goose feathers, and eventuallj^ at last rid him 
on a rail ! And thus did rails become notorious as the 
means of carrying contemporary great men of more 
modern ages, into the most highest orifice within the 
gift of a gelorious empire, to the terror and dismay of 
the patriots of the region of swamps and rattlesnakes. 
And thus perished one of the truly great and good men 
of the antediluvean period of the middle century, the 
prince of navigators, who lived and died for mankind, 
(and that of course includes us Egyptians,) therefore 
we are doubly indebted to him for gratitude ! 

One more remark allow me to say, Mr. President, and 
gentlemen of this here Lyceum, and I am done, and I 
want to impress it upon your mind. If it had not have 
l)een for Keristofer Kerlumbus, Mr. Washington would 
have never have been born, so he wouldn't — besides all 
this, Mr. Washington was a coward. 

With these remarks I leave the floor for abler hands. 
\_Mr. Slabside rises highly excited.^ 

Mr. President : — I am dumbfounded — I am tetotal- 
istically and surrupticiously surprised at the quiet man- 
ner in which you have listened and hearn the susper- 
sions of character of that great and good man — my 
blood's been "bilin hot, to think of the audacious propin- 
quity of the speaker who had the last floor — Mr. Wash- 
ington a coward ! — Mr. Washington a coward ! His 
character, sir, is as pure and as spotless as the African 
snows, thrice bleached by the howling zephyrs of the 

northern hem — Mr. Washington a coward ! Lock- 

jaiued be the mouth that spoke it ! Why, sir, look at 
him at Lundy's Lane — look at him at Tippecanoe — look 
at him at Waterloo, and, sir, look at him at New h'leansl 
Did he display cowardice thar, sir, or at any of the 
thousand similar battles that he font — and 

Hon. Felix GtARROTe [interrupting']. — Mr. Wash- 
ington never fitu-the battle of New ^rleans — he wasn't 
thar, sir ; he'd been dead two years and seving months 
and thirty-one days afore that battle was fit, so he had. 
He never font that battle 1 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 127 

Mr, Slabside. — Who did fight the battle of New 
^T-leans ? 

Hon. Felix Garrote. — If j^ou will jist take the 
trouble to refer to Josephus, or read Benjamin Frank 
ling's History of the Crimean and Black Hawk wars, 
30 Q will thar find, Mr. President, that Gen. Bore-your- 
gourd fit the battle of New ^vleans. 

Mr. Slabside. — I thank my very larned friend, not 
only for interruptin' me, but more particularly for his 
corrections, in which he has showed himself totally ig- 
norant of history, men and things. 

I contend, notwithstanding the gentleman's assertion 
to the contrary, that Mr. Washington not only fit at the 
battle of New h^leans, but that he is alive now, sir. I 
have only to pint you, Mr. President, and gentlemen of 
this here Lj^ceum, to his quiet and retired home at San- 
doval, on the banks of the Tombigbee river, in the 
state of Missouri, whar he now resides conscious of his 
private worth, and of the great and brilliant sarvice he 
has rendered his countr^^ and in the enjoyment of 
those distinguished honors heaped upon his grateful 
brow b}^ his aged countrymen ; and allow me to call the 
attention of my very learned opponement, that Gen. 
Bo?Tgard was not at the battle of New ^rleans. He 
couldn't have font that battle. He was dead, sir! 

Yes, Mr. President, if you will have the patience to 
turn and look over Horace Greeley's History of the 
Kansas Hymn Book war, you will there learn that Gen. 
Bo-re-gurd and Col. Buchanan, at the head of an army 
of negroes, made a desperate charge upon Mason's and 
Dixie's ly'in; and they've been dead ever since I I 

^Immense sensation among the Egyptians, during 
which the president pronounced the debate closed, 
and introduced the speakers to the audience. 
Or eat shaking of hands.'] 



128 STANDARD DIALOGUES 



THE WIDOW MUGGINS. HER OPINIONS OF 
COOKS, SUITORS, AND HUSBANDS. 

DRAMATIS PERSON^.. 

Mrs. Muggins, a widow. 
Cousin Hannah Jane. 
Betty, Mrs. Muggins' cook. 



Scene. — A room in Mrs. Muggins^ Jiouse. Cousin Han- 
nah Jane sewing. 

Mrs. M. [without']. — Betty, what in the world are you 
doing ? Why don't you hurry up with your work. I'll 
declare to gracious, you are the slowest creature I ever 
saw in all my born da3^s. 

Betty [withouf]. — Why, Mrs. Muggins, I'm hurryin' 
jest as fast as I can. 

Mrs. M. — Oh, Betty ! yo're very slow, very slow. 
[Enter Mrs. M., who sits down and commences 
knitting.] 

Mrs. M. — Cousin Hannah Jane, a body has a sight 
of trouble with the cooks a body has to hire now- 
a-days. When I was a young woman, the servant- 
girls did a great deal better than they do now, cousin 
Hannah Jane. 

C. H. J. — Yes, cousin Jemima, in our young days, 
the servants were of some account. 

Mrs. M. — Yes, that they were, cousin Hannah Jane. 
They didn't break a bowl or a pitcher every other day, 
as most of 'em do now ; and they were not afraid to 
work. I tell you, the wa}^ my mother's servants 
worked ! oh, it was a sight I Them was the days when 
a-body could get the worth of a-body's money out of a 
hired girl, cousin Hannah Jane 

C. H. J. — Yes, the servants earned their wages then. 
. Mrs. M. — Cousin Hannah Jane, you don't know how 
much trouble I have had with the shiftless, trifling 
cooks I've had this year. Would you believe it, cousin 
Hannah Jane ? I've had as many as eight cooks since 
Ihe 1st of January. 

C. H. J. — Sakes a-live ! 3^ou don't say so ^ 
[Enter Betty.] 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 129 

Betty. — Mrs. Muggins, do you want them taters 
baked or biled ? 

Mrs. M.— Biled, Betty, biled ! 

Betty. — Yes, marm. [^Going out.'] 

Mrs. M. \_calling']. — Betty ! 

Betty [retuiming'l.—W q\\. 

Mrs. M. — Mind, Betty, I said hiled ! 

Betty. — Yes, marm. \_Exit.'] 

Mrs. M. — I always am obleeged to tell Betty twice 
over, before she understands me, cousin Hannah Jane. 
But Betty does a sight better than most of the other 
servai^ts I've had, cousin Hannah Jane ; she don't break 
as many things, and she's a heap neater about her work 
than most of 'em were, cousin Hannah Jane. Then 
she's tolerable industrious, only she's so slow ; that's her 
wust fault, cousin Hannah Jane. Now the fust cook I 
had, the arly part of the year, was the awfulest laziest, 
sleepy-headedest thing you ever saw, cousin Hannah 
Jane. Wh}', she never had breakfast read}^ before ten 
o'clock, cousin Hannah Jane. You know I couldn't 
put up with that, cousin Hannah Jane. So I sent her 
away. 

C. H. J. — That was right. I'd have done so, too, 
cousin Jemima. 

Mrs. M. — Well, my next cook wasn't any better than 
the fust, cousin Hannah Jane. Her name was Jane 
Short. She was a awful slovenly, untidy critter. She 
didn't keep herself clean, cousin Hannah Jane. Khe 
would often git breakfast without washing her fac^ or 
combin' her hair, cousin Hannah Jane. 

\^Gouiiin Hannah Jane holds up her hands in 
amazement'] 

C. H. J. — Goodness, mercy, did I ever ! 

Mrs. M. — It's a fact, cousin Hannah Jane, true as my 
name's Jemima Muggins. Cousin Hannah Jane. 
Wasn't it awful '( 

[ Cousin Hannah Jane again holds up her hands in 
amazement.'] 

C. H. J.— Oh, horrid ! 

Mrs M. — It's as true as my name's Jemima Alaggina 
{Enter Betty.] 



130 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

Betty. — Mrs. Muggins, do you want them eggs fried 
or biled. 

Mrs. M. — Biled, Betty, biled ! 

Betty [^going']. — Yes, marm. 

Mrs. M.— Betty ! 

Betty [^refurning^. — Well. 

Mrs. M. — Don't forgit, Betty, biled; recollect Betty. 

Betty. — Yes, marm. 

Mrs. M. — My next cook was an awful proud thing, 
cousin Hannah Jane, especiall}^ for a servant-girl. Her 
name was Mary Toots. She would sometimes wash 
her face in butter-milk to make it white, and then pour 
the butter-milk in the pitcher, and put it on the table 
for me and my niece Peggy Ann to drink, cousin Han- 
nah Jane. 

C. H. J. [^again raising her hands in wonder and dis- 
gusQ. — Sakes a mercy ! Did I ever ? 

Mrs. M. — It's as true as my name's Jemima Muggins. 
lE7iter Betty.'] 

Betty. — How many eggs must I use in makin' them 
pan-cakes ? 

Mrs. M. — Six, Betty, six! 

Betty \_going]. — Yes, marm. 

Mrs. M. — Betty ! \_Betty returns.'] 

Mrs. M. — Mind, Betty, I said six. 

Betty. — Yes, marm. ^\_Exit.'\ 

Mrs. M. — My fourth cook was too fond of gaddin' 
about, cousin Hannah Jane. I soon got rid of her. 
My fifth cook had the awfulest temper j'ou ever saw in 
your life, cousin Hannah Jane. What do you think, 
cousin Hannah Jane ; she broke a whole set of cups and 
sassers, because I said she had red hair. 

C. H. J. [i-aising her hands]. — Oh, horrid I 

Mrs. M. — Don't that beat any thing you ever heerd 
on, cousin Hannah Jane ? 

C. H. J. — Oh, sakes a' mercy I it was awful 1 

Mrs. M. — My sixth cook w^as too fond of reading 
books, cousin Hannah Jane. You know it wont do fcr 
a servant-girl to be too fond of readin'. She didn't 
suit me. M}-" seventh \^ihe last one before Belly], 1 sent 
away, because ehe made fun of my churcli, and you 
know I wouldn't stand that, cousin Hannah Jane. So 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 131 

I soon gave her leave of absence, as people sa}^ So you 
see, Betty is my eighth cook this year. As I said be- 
fore, she does a heap better than any of the others, but 
still she has a heap of faults, cousin Hannah Jane ; but 
the wust one she's got, is she's so slow, so pokm\ Now 
yoa might think I am hard to please, cousin Hannah 
Jane, out I aint. Not a bit. If a servant will try and 
come any ways near doin- right, I am satisfied, cousin 
Hannah Jane. You know I have a very mild temper, 
cousin Hannah Jane. 

C. H. J. — Yes, cousin Jemima, no one has a better, 
disposition than 3^ou have. \_Enter Betty.'\ 

Betty. — How much sugar shall I put in the rice- 
puddin', Mrs. Muggins ? 

Mrs. M. — Three ounces of sugar to four ounces of 
rice, Bett3^ Put in four eggs, Betty ; two ounces 
of butter, melted in a tea-cup full of cream — put in a 
piece of lemon peel, Betty. 

Betty [^oz«^]. — Yes, marm. 

Mrs. M. — Betty ! \_Betty returns.'\ Remember to put 
jn the lemon peel. 

Betty. — Yes, marm. 

Mrs. M.— Now, Betty, aint a bad sort of a girl. 
She'd do tolerable well, if she wasn't so slow. Betty is 
very fond of my niece, Peggy Ann ; she'll do almost 
any thing for her. What do 3^ou think, cousin Hannah 
Jane, Jake Stubbins, the tooth doctor, has been comin' 
to see Peggy Ann every Sunday night for the last six 
months and 3^et he has never axed her to have him. Now, 
I'm a guin' to put a stop to this here kind of work. If he 
don't ax her to marry him the very next time he comes, 
I'll give him to understand his company isn't wanted 
here any longer. What's the use of comin', and comin', 
and comin' from June to etarnit}', and never sayin' 
nothin' about marryin', cousin Hannah Jane ; besides 
that, he often comes before supper-time, in fact, nearly 
alwa^'s. Now, I say it's a shame to be a livin' off of a 
body that way, and then not say a word to the gal 
about marryin'. It's too bad, cousin Hannah Jane, 
too had. 

C. H. J. — Yes, that's so, cousin Jemima. I wouldn't 
stand it neither. 



132 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

Mrs. M. — Now, Jake Stubbins, jest for all the world 
puts me in mind of the fellows that used to come to vay 
Uncle Timothy's. Uncle Timothy had eight grown 
gals; and on Sunday afternoon and Sunday night, it 
was a sight to see the way the young men and the old 
bachelors and widowers did gather in ! oh, it was awful 
And what do you think, cousin Hannah Jane, but one 
out of the eight ever married, although they had more 
beaus than 3^ou could shake a stick at. [^Enter Betty.'] 

Betty. — What's your wa}^ of makin' plum-cakes, 
Mrs. Muggins ? 

Mrs. M. — Take two quarts of fine fiour, Betty, and a 
pound of dry loaf sugar. With your plums, use 
half a pound of raisins, a quarter of an ounce of cloves, 
half a pound of almonds, a grated nutmeg, twelve eggs, 
and a little brandy. 

Betty [^going']. — Yes, marm. 

Mrs. M. — Betty ! [Betty returns.'] Mind to put in 
the brandy. 

Betty. —Yes, marm. 

Mrs. M. — Well, cousin Hannah Jane, I'm a lone 
widder, and I sometimes think I had better take a com- 
l^anion, but I'm afraid I can never meet with such another 
dear, good man, as poor Mr. Muggins was ; oh, he was 
sich a dear, good soul ! He was so keerful of me, 
cousin Hannah Jane. He was always afraid I would 
injure my health by hard work, cousin Hannah Jane. 
He would alwa3^s want to do his own work and mine 
too, cousin Hannah Jane. Oh, no ! I will never see a 
man like my poor husband ! Oh, Obadiah Muggins I 
It's been twelve years since the dear, good soul went to 
the kingdom, cousin Hannah Jane. [^Sighs.] My 
friends often tell me I ought to take another companion, 
cousin Hannah Jane, and I have plenty of chances, 
plenty of 'em, cousin Hannah Jane, but I'm not easily 
suited, cousin Hannah Jane. Now, I could get old man 
Wiggins jest as easy as slippin' on ice ; but the old 
critter has sort of curious ways that I don't like much. 
Then there's Uriah Thompson ; I could git him, but he 
has too many children. Then there's old Deacon Doo- 
little; I know I could get him, but he's too sharp and 
close-fisted, he'd want to handle more of m^^ money 



STANDAED DIALOGUES 133 

than I'd care about letting him have, and then we'd have 
to quarrel. Then there's Dan Dempster, he's nearly dyin^ 
to marry me, but he's sich a rank pisin copperhead, and 
I hate them. Then there's plenty of others I could 
git, cousin Hannah Jane, but I don't know any one as 
reminds me of poor Obadiah what's dead and gone to 
the kingdom. Well, cousin Hannah Jane, suppose we 
go into Peggy Ann's room and persuade her to pla}^ for 
us on the pyanner. She plays so nice. I do love to hear 
her sing that sweet song, " There's three little kittings 
who have lost their mittins !" \_Singing heard without.'] 
Jest listen, she's a singin' now ; come along, cousin 
Hannah Jane, come along. [Exit. Curtain falls.'] 



MARRYING FOR MONET. 

CHARACTERS. 
Harry Brown. Robert Bruce. Eliza Greely 



Scene I. — A room in Mrs. Whitens boarding-house. 

Brown [looking in his pocket-book]. — Only five dollars 
in my pocket, and ten dollars due for board. Aint I in 
a pretty fix ? I must raise the wind somehow; that's 
certain ; but the query is, how am I to do it ? Beside 
my board bill I have sundry other little bills that ought 
to be squared up. I really don't know why it is. but as 
soon as I get out of money every bod}^ commences dup- 
ning me. 

Bruce [outside]. — Hello, Brown ! 

Brown. — Hello yourself! 

Bruce. — Will you let a fellow come in ? 

Brown. — Come in, of course, and don't stand there 
hallooing at a fellow when he's in trouble. Come in right 
away ; I want to talk with you. 

[Enter Robert Bruce.] 

Bruce. — You reall}^ want to talk to me, do you ; 
Well, go ahead. You're talking nearly all the time. If 
you don't have any one to talk to, you talk to yourself 



134 STAND AED DIALOGUES 

I think you were indulging in that pastime when T came 
to the door. 

Brown. — Well, that's nothing. Somebod^^ has said 
that all great men talk to themselves, and I believe it's 
a fact. But, Bob, I wish it to be distinctly understood 
ihat I do not consider myself a great man, but perhaps 
I will be a great man some day. There's one thing cer- 
tain, Bob, I've got a great load of trouble to bear, and 
ihe question naturally arises, how am I going to rid my- 
self of that trouble ; how am I going to pitch the great 
load from off my shoulders, and stand once more in the 
free light of day a relieved man, a free man, an untram- 
meled man — a man who feels that a great load has been 
jerked from off his shoulders — a man that — ah — ahem. 
[^Pauses.2 

Bruce. — Well, that's good ! go on. 

Brown. — Bob, are you laughing at me ? Come now, 
that wont do. Would you laugh at one who was floun- 
dering in the mud of despondency ? Would you let a 
smile wreathe your lips when a fellow -being was in 
trouble? Answer me, Bob. As Shakspeare says, "Let 
me not burst in ignorance." 

Bruce. — No, I wouldn't. How could I laagh ataman 
when his misery makes him so very eloquent ? I couldn't 
do it, indeed. But, Harry, what's the matter now? 
What new trouble have you got into ? 

Brown. — I haven't got into any new trouble. I'm in 
the same old trouble — want of money. 

Bruce. — Oh, is that all ? I can lend you an X, if that 
will get you through. 

Brown. — Bob, you're a good old fellow, but I can't 
take any thing more from you until I have squared off 
the old account. You know I owe you a ten now, 

Bruce. — Yes, I know ; but you needn't trouble your- 
self on that score. I can wait. By-the-way, Harry, 
have you seen the new boarder yet ? 

Brown. — No ; who is he ? 

Bruce. — Who is she, you mean. Her name's Eliza 
G reely. 

Brown. — A relative of Horace, is she ? 

Bruce. — Can't say, indeed. 

Brown. — Well, is she pretty ? 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 135 

Bruce. — No, not killingly beautiful. Wont smash 
many hearts, I judge. 

Brown. — One more question, Bob. Is she rich ? 

Bruce. — She is. She told Mrs. White she had a few 
thousands, and asked her where she had better invest. 

Brown. — Good! hurrah! I'll marry her. 

Bruce.. — Ha ! ha ! Wait until 3^ou see her before you 
get excited. And then remember that it takes two to 
make a baro-ain. Remember, also, 



' It's easier far to like a girl 
Than to make a girl like y 



you." 

Brown. — Well, I'll do my best any how; but stop, is 
she young ? 

Bruce. — About your own age, I should say, perhaps 
younger. 

Brown. — Well, that's good so far. Now let's see, how 
am I to manage? I'll get an introduction to her to- 
night, of course. 

Bruce. — Oh ! of course you will. And then what next ? 
Will you propose before 3'ou go to bed ? 

Brown. — No, Bob, that would be rushing things. No, 
no ; I'll take time and work carefully. As old Hopkins 
used to sa)^ "I'll make haste slowly." 

Bruce. — And perhaps in the meantime you'll have the 
pleasure of seeing the fair lady carried off by some fel- 
low who makes haste fastJy. 

Brown. — I'll be on the lookout for all such fellows. 

Bruce. — Perhaps the lady is engaged. 

Brown. — Well, to be sure. [ With a puzzled air.~\ I 
never thought of that ; but if she is, I'll find out before 
I ask the momentous question. I say, Bob, wouldn't 
you enter the ring 3'ourself if it wasn't for your darling 
little Alice ? 

Bruce. — I might ; I don't know ; wiser men have 
done more foolish things. 

Brown. — Well, it's all arranged ! I'll marry the new 
boarder, and then with our few thousands in our pockets 
we'll laugh at povert}^ We'll "walk the water like a 
thing of life," or, rather, like two things of life. We'll 
live in a big house, and have a coach, and servants, and 
horses, and every thing we tvant. In sliort. we'll be 



136 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

as happy as the day is long. I wish it was night. I am 
anxious for the introduction. Roll swiftly round ye wheels 
of time. Make every thing scatter, and bring the night 
with all possible speed. I'm in haste. I'm all in a 
shiver of expectation and excitement. 

Bruce. — Keep cool, Harry ; tlie night will come soon 
enough. I must be off now, but before I go allow me 
to wish you success in your pursuit of a wife with golden 
charms. [Exit Robert.~\ 

Broavn. — I believe I'm going to make a raise at last. 
Now, if brother Tom was here, and knew all, he would 
give me a regular scolding for attempting to rush head- 
long into matrimony. But Tom is too slow and too 
careful. There's no use in courting a girl a year, nor 
half a year, nor two months. It's all nonsense ; if a man 
likes a girl, and the girl likes him, they'll know it before 
two days. I believe in rushing right ahead, and never 
stopping to think. This stopping to think has ruined 
many a man, and spoiled thousands of good matcties. 
Now, if this new boarder isn't engaged, I'll lay a wager 
she'll be mine before three months ; I'm going to be in 
ahurry; I'm going to rush things; she's got the tin, and 
that's what I 'm after. Wont Tom open his eyes wide when 
he hears that I'm married ? But wont he open his eyes 
very wide when he hears that I'm living in a brown-stone 
front? But I can't sit here ; it's impossible for me to stay 
here until supper-time ; I must go out and walk the streets 
until nightfall ; my impatience will not let me be quiet. 
\_Gets up and takes his hat.^ Good-by poverty, and hur- 
rah for the new boarder and her thousands of dollars 
\^JSxit Harry Brown.^ 

\_Gurtain Falls.'] 

Scene 2. — A room in Mrs Whitens hoarding-house. 
Harry Brown discovered. 
Brown. — I'm married, thank fortune, I'm married at 
last. My wife, although not the most beautiful woman 
in the world, is, I think, a good sort of a woman. She 
will be liberal ; I know she will ; she will shell out the 
dollars as though they were cents ; there's one thing 
mystifies me a little ; I think she might have bought 
herself a grander outfit ; her bonnet might have been just 



STANDAED DIALOGUES 137 

a little better. But then she looked well in it, and I sup 
pose she uuAerstands the mysteries of dressing bettet 
than I do. Now, there's some women who look a thou- 
sand times better in calico than they do in silk, and I 
have no doubt Eliza is one of that number. I've been 
married two days now, and I think it is about time I 
was finding out just exactly how many thousands she 
has. It's a delicate matter to talk on, but then I needn t 
care; the knot is tied and can't be severed. Hello! 
here comes my wife now. My wife ! how funny that 
sounds I 

[Enter Eliza.'] 

Eliza. — Well, duck}^ not gone out yet, I see. 

Brown. — No, mj^ little darling, I aint gone out yet. 
Fact is, 'Liza, I don't like to be awa^^ very long from you. 

Eliza. — Don't you. Brownie dear ? Ah, you'll get 
over that b}^ and l3y. 

Brown. — No, Eliza ; I don't think I will. I may 
even say I am sure I will not. I am convinced that 
there is, away down in my heart of hearts, a long, strong, 
broad, deep flame of love, that will blaze on and blaze 
on through countless nights of waking and days of woe. 
There rolls not a billow of sorrow nor salt water that 
can extinguish that flame. That flame will burn as long 
as — yes, Eliza, that flame will burn as long as — ahem — 
yes, Eliza 

Eliza. — Is there any thing the matter with you, 
Brownie, dear? 

Brown. — No, Eliza, nothing ; I was only soaring. But 
to come to business, wifey tifey, where is your money 
deposited ? 

Eliza. — My money I ha ! ha I That's good I Brownie 
dear, I haven't ten dollars to my name. 

Brown. — Ah I I see ; a good joke, Eliza ; a good joke 
indeed. You want to make me believe for a little while 
that you haven't any money, and then tell me all 
at once what an awful pile you have. But don't do it, 
Eliza ; the news would be too good ; I couldn't bear it; 
reason might totter and throw herself 

Eliza. — Brownie, 3'ou are talking kind of shallow this 
ix'orning. Is there any thing the matter with your head ? 

Brown.- -No, ducky, nothing; but do tell me just 



138 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

how many thousand dollars you have, and where it is 
deposited. 

Eliza.— I told jow before, and I tell you again, I 
haven't ten dollars to my name. There's my port-mon- 
Die. \_Hands it.~\ Examine for yourself. It contains 
pvery cent of my money. 

Brown. — Great Constan 



Eliza. — Stop, Brownie ; don't swear. Did you think 
I was wealthy ? 

Brown. — To be sure I did. Didn't you tell Mrs. 
White 3^ou had a few thousand ? 

Eliza, — I believe I did say something of that kind ; 
but I meant a few thousand cents. Of course I didn't 
say it to lead any person to believe I was wealthy. 

Brown. — Oh, I'm sold. I'm a wretched man ! 

Eliza. — No, you iiin't, Brownie, dear. \^Puts her 
arms around Ms neck.'] Cheer up ; perhaps you'll find 
I'm worth more than a few thousand dollars. 

Brown. — Eliza, I believe you are right. I believe I 
have found a treasure, but not the kind of a treasure I 
expected. Anyhow, the knot is tied, and we may as well 
make the best of a bad arrangement; not saying at all, 
duckey tifey, that it is a bad arrangement. Oh, no ; not 
at all. 

Eliza. — No, no ; it isn't a bad arrangement, Brownie 
dear. We'll get along swimminglj^ I know we will. 

Brown. — Yes, we'll get along swimmingly ; at least I 
hope we will. But still I think it is a bad arrangement 
to marry in haste and repent at leisure. 
\_Gur tain falls.] 



THE CONFLICT. 

Scene. — William Thoughtful, a young man who is form- 
ing new resolutions and plans on New Yearns day, ia 
seated in a room, alone, thinking aloud. 

Thoughtful. — This day I wish to begin life anew. 
What is my future destiny ? Shall I continue to climb 
the " Hill of Science," as I trust I have begun, till I 
reach the summit, and all the world reverence the name 
of Thoughtful ? Or, shall I still remain near my own 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 139 

loved home, toiling with willing hands to gain the glit- 
tering gold ? not for mere show, but that I might minis- 
ter to the loving ones who have, by example and care, 
made me what I am ! Oh ! that the future was not a 
sealed book to me ! If some good fairy would only 
have the kindness to point out the path which would be 
the safest for me to pursue I 

\_Enter Vanity. A young girl gaily dressed; dis- 
playi7ig much gold and jeivels.'] 

Yanity. — Beautiful creature ! Thy brow is clothed 
with thought. How much more charming in the e^^es 
of all, must one be, the expression of whose face shows 
that he thinks and feels, than one whose only expression 
is love for the world and its pleasures. Listen to me ! 
You have talents, great talents ; with a little exertion 
you might gain gold enough to dress with all the pomp 
and splendor of a prince. The wealthiest would bow to 
you, and nothing would be lacking to complete your 
happiness. Your personal beauty, wealth, and towering 
mind would attract all the world, even from the least to 
the greatest. 

Thoughtful. — I think I know who thou art : is not 
Yanity tliy name ? Surely, no honest person is ashamed 
of nis name ? 

Yanity. — Oh, no, indeed 1 Yanity would advise thee 
to do nothing that would really benefit thee ; but / 
would have thee improve thy mind, and attain to great- 
ness. Oh, follow my advice ! Think of the enjoyment 
to be derived from being one to whom every one will 
bow and render praise. 

Thoughtful. — I know thee! Yanity ts thy name! 
Are we to live merely for our own selfish enjoyment ? 
Thou hast been trying to deceive me ; but I understand 
thy wiles. Retire from my presence ! I hope I will not 
harbor Vanity. 

Yanity {j^etires, murmuring']. — I thought he would 
not know me. 

Thoughtful, — There, I have vanquished one enem}^ ! 

Oh ! that I might know equally well all who, with their 

flattering words, would lure me from the path of duty. 

\ Enter Mammon. A hoy represented as an old 

man, rather plainly dressed.^ 



140 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

Mammon. — Listen to me, and I will give thee advice 
worth more than that of any other being. Hast thou 
not heard of me — of my wealth ? M^^ coffers are filled 
to the brim ! It will be well for thee to do as I have 
done. I will tell thee how to gain this great amonnt of 
treasure Only follow m}^ advice, and thou shalt be 
happy ! 

Thoughtful. — Who art thou that advisest me ? One 
who really seeks my good, or art thou trying to deceive 
me ? But speak on ; 1 would learn more of thy char- 
acter. 

Mammon. — I will speak on till thou knowest cer- 
tainly that 1 would do thee good. Dost thou not know 
that gold is a blessing ? See here ! [ Taking a handful of 
shining metal from his pocket.'] See this gold and silver I 
Here is enough to procure comforts for thine aged pa- 
rents that would last them all their lives ; and yet, this 
is not a hundredth part of what / possess. Do as I 
have done, and thou shalt not only gain enough to make 
thy parents comfortable and happy, but can aid many 
poor and stricken ones. I would not have thee restricted 
to any one particular employment ; choose whatever you 
like; onl^^ remember that it is your duty to gain gold! 
For, how could the poor, the benighted, and the suffer- 
ing sick ones who can not help themselves be benefited 
if there was not some aljle as well as willing hand to 
help them ? Listen to the call of the numerous benevo- 
lent societies all over our land ! Oh, give us gold ! more 
gold to send bibles to the heathen who have dwelt in 
darkness all their lives. Or, how could we obey the 
divine command — " Go ye into all the world and preach 
the Gospel," if it were not for gold ? Thou mightest 
choose to be a minister of the gospel ; but while seeking 
to do good be careful not to offend your wealthy par- 
ishioners ; for. if you should gain their ill-will, they 
might refuse to part with any of their precious gold ; 
then your benevolent plans would be thwarted. With- 
out this valuable treasure, 3'ou could not soothe the 
wailing cry for help, which is being sent up from all 
over the face of our globe. Or, if you should choose to 
be a physician, and be called to attend some wealthj'" 
patient for the sake of obtaining gold, with which you 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 141 

might minister to the wants of the poor and needy, it 
would be better not to be in too much haste to have 
him recover, so that he would no longer need your ser- 
vices. Or, if you should choose to be a merchant, be 
sure and let thy motto be gold. Obtain all thou canst 
f jr an article, if the purchaser does not know that he 
can buy it for less at other places ; that is Ms business, 
not thine. [ Winking slyly.'] Get all thou canst, for 
how much good couldst thou do, if thou only possessed 
a great amount of gold. 

[Enter Truth, a boy with a helmet and shield, bear- 
ing a banner wreathed with evergreens, and hav- 
ing the word, Truth, inscribed upon it.] 

Truth [waving his banner]. — Is gold to be bought at 
the expense of Truth, Justice, or Honesty ? 

Mammon [frowning upon Truth]. — And who art 
thou ? to intrude upon us, when I have been advising 
my good friend Thoughtful ? 

Truth. — -One who loves justice, and will never, no 
never, see one who loves it as well as I do, deceived by 
thy flattering words ! [ Turning to Thoughtful.] Friend 
Thoughtful, didst thou not know him ? Although he would 
gladly make it seem to thee that it is thy duty to wrench 
the glittering treasure from thy fellow men, canst thou 
not see that he would have thee use deceit smd fraud in 
every possible way? Oh, consider! before resolving 
to follow his advice ! 

Thoughtful [rising hastily to his feet, and grasping 
the hand of Truth]. — Oh! my good friend, Truth! 
Words can not express my thanks to thee, for coming 
just in time to prevent my following this deceitful 
Mammon ! I know him now, and ought to have known 
him before ; but his seemingly benevolent purpose 
blinded me. But from henceforth, honesty will be my 
first motto, and 

Mammon. — Far be it from me to advise thee to be 
dishonest ! But gold is a blessing, and we could never 
minister to the wants of the poor and needy without it. 

Truth. — Oh, misguided Mammon ! go to your gilded 

cell, and ponder on the inconsistency of your statement ! 

What less is it than dishonesty, to receive more than 

you know an artii^le is worth from an unsuspecting cus- 

21 



142 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

tomer ? Or. d3 in the case of a physician, to knowingly 
and wilfully prevent your patient from recovering? 
Nay, worse than that, not only wa'ongfully obtaining 
his gold, but depriving him of his health ; and to whom 
is not health dearer than gold ? 

Mammon [walks slowly away, muttering']. — I am van 
quished ! 

Thoughtful. — Oh, Truth ! wilt thou ever be my 
champion, and open my eyes to all deceit? 

Truth. — If tliou wilt receive and ever acknowledge 
me as thy friend, most certainl}^ I will. I would gladly 
use my weapons to defend all ; but those who will not 
listen to me, I can not aid. 

[Enter Benevolence, Earnestness, and Humility ; 
each hears a banner with her name inscribed upon 
it. Benevolence, a large girl, dressed in a lourple 
or drab dress, and a large cloak of some dark ma- 
terial thrown over her shoulders, enters first : she 
is followed by Earnestness, who has on a scarlet 
dress, trimmed with evergreens, and a wreath of 
the same about her head. Lastly, Humility, a 
little girl dressed in white, enters. They take 
their places upon the stage, and wave their ban- 
ners."} 
Benevolence.^ — Deceptive Mammon would have thee 
think that I follow in his footsteps ! But true Benevo- 
lence follows Truth. Thou hast chosen him as thy 
champion, wilt thou accept my friendship ? [She smil- 
ingly extends her hand ; he takes it.~\ 
Thoughtful. — Most gladly, I will ! 
Earnestness. — Thou hast chosen Benevolence as thy 
friend. I would make thee more earnest in every good 
work I [ Thoughtful clasps her hand.] 

Thoughtful. — Most thankful am I for thy friendship. 
Humility. — Thou hast vanquished Vanity, wouldst 
thou have Humility instead ? [He clasps her hand also.] 
Thoughtful. — Ah, yes ! With Truth for my chara^ 
pion. Benevolence, Earnestness, and Humility for my 
friends, I trust I shall conquer all m}^ enemies. How 
sad if I had chosen Mammon and Vanity instead I I 
now regard them as deadly foes. 

[Curtain falls.'] 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 143 

LIFE: A SCHOOL SCENE. 

CHAEAOTERS. 

Pleasure. Beauty. Wealth. Fame. Pistt. 



Dress: Pleasure. — White dress, looped with flowers ; covered 
with butterflies, spangles of gold, etc. Wreath of flowers on 
her head. Flowers on bosom. 

Beauty. — The same as Pleasure, nearly. 

Wealth. — Rich black silk, with trail. Rings, pins, bracelets, 
chains, jewels, etc, in profusion. Crown of black silk or velvet, 
with half moon and stars of gold. Black vail covered with 
gold stars flowing back from crown. 

Fame. — Plain dress of some dark stuff". Plain linen collar 
and cuff's. Collar fastened with a single brilliant gem. Hair 
done back from forehead. 

Piety. — Pure white, with a single rose-bud on bosom. 

Position on Stage. — Pleasure enters first, from left of stage ; 
speaks center; takes place right. Beauty enters right, takes 
place and speaks left. Wealth enters left, speaks ce7v^er, takes 
place right. Fame enters right, takes place and speaks left. 
Piety enters, takes place and speaks center — thus forming a 
beautiful tableau. 



Pleasure \_Enter lightly, trilling a gay song. Stops 
singing and says :] — 
Oh, life to me is a thing of pleasure ! 
For sorrow and care I find no leisure. 
Like a butterfly gay with gaudy wings — 
Or like a birdling wild that trills and sings, 
I'll away from bower to bower. 
Tasting the sweets of every flower, 
Singing my wild, glad measure ; — 
Ever seeking some new pleasure. 

My friends shall be 

All like me, 

Giddy and gay 

The live long day. 

We have but one life to live — so the records say, 
Let us drink and be merry while we may: 
With rich, red wines our glasses we'll fill. 
With jest and with laugh dull care we'll kill. 



144 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

Soft, sensuous music causes my bosom to beat, 

Away, away, to its time, ye restless feet. 

Time to repent when death draws nigh :— 

Till then, wild heart, cause me not a sigh. 

Life to me is a song of pleasure — 

Keep step, wayward feet, to its changeful measuie 

Beauty: — 

Sister, thou dost live for pleasure: 
In beauty I find the rarest treasure ; 
You would live thoughtless and gay ; 
I would be a beauty fair as the day ; 
I would have features faultless and fair 
With no trace of frailty ling'ring there : 
I would have a form like that of a queen — 
Yes, far more lovely than mortal has seen, 
Then I'd be the wonder of all that should see — 
Oh, that would be pleasure if pleasure there be I 

Wealth : — 

Foolish things ! Prate of beauty and pleasure I 

I would have coffers crammed with treasure. 

What beaut}^ is there like that of gold ? — 

E'en though it does make the heart stony and cold I 

What earthly pleasure like that to feel 

Hands full of gold, till senses reel? 

Oh, give me jewels, sparkling and bright. 

That shame the stars which fill the night. 

Bring me diamonds from the mine, — 

Bring me pearls from ocean's brine ; 

Fill m}^ houses with all that there be 

Of what's costly and rare from over the sea. 

Then I'll not care for Old Time as he flies, 

When with gold and with jewels I can feast my eyes. 

Fame :— 

Ye groveling earth-worms with wishes vain ! 

I seek for that which few may obtain. 

What pleasure is there in a cup of wine ? 

Who years from now will care for that form divine f 

And none but a sordid, soulless mind 

In the chink of gold would a pleasure find. 



STANDAED DIALOGUES 



145 



Care 3^e not for something more high ? 

That something which 3^our gold can nevtr buy 'f 

Have 3'e no longings in A^our inmost self 

Other than those for pleasure and pelf? 

I would have mine a proud, immortal namey 

Which shall for ever live in Fame 1 

I'JETY : — 

I would have life to me 

Just what our Father designed it should be. 

True wisdom I'll seek 

Ever to guide me w-hen I'm weak. 

In doing His will mj pleasure I'll find ; 

To what seemeth Him good, I'll be resigned. 

My treasure I'll seek to lay up above, 

In the Better-land, where God dwells, who is lofkHS. 

\_Music, while the curtain slowly falls.'] 



BEN, THE ORPHAN BOY; OR, ''HONESTY IS 
THE BEST POLICY." 

CHARACTERS. 

Ben Wilson, Martha Raymond. Mr. Holland. 
Mrs. Holland. Servant. 



Scene 1. — A street, Martha Raymond, a keeper of a 
fruit stand, and Ben Wilson discovered. 

Ben. — How nice the windows look this evening ; I 
wish I was rich and could buy some of the pretty 
things I see. But if I could but get enough to eat and 
a good fire to stay by at night, I would be satisfied. 
But I can not. I am compelled to wander through the 
streets and can get nothing but what I beg from the 
passers-by. 

Martha. — Are jow hungry now, Ben ? 

Ben. — Yes, ver3^ hungry ; I have had nothing to eat 
to-day. Dave sent me out this morning without a 



146 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

mouthful lo eat before I started, and would have 
whipped me, too, if I had not run away. And now I 
am afraid to 0:0 back ao^ain. 

Martha. — Here, Ben \_hands cakes'], you shall not 
want for something to eat as long as I have any thing 
to give 3"ou. I have very hard getting along, but am 
a little better off than you. I have stood here all this 
cold, dreary day, and have only sold a half dollar's worth 
yet. My poor mother is sick at home, and if things do 
not turn out better, I shall soon be as badly off as you. 

Ben. — Oh, how good that cake is ! 

Martha. — Here's a couple more, Ben. I know you 
are hungry. We are poor, but God will provide for us 
if we but trust in him and are honest and upright. 

Ben [looking off]. — Do you see that fine lady and 
gentleman getting into that carriage ? Arn't they 
grand ? Martha, why is it that some people are allowed 
to be so rich and comfortable, while others are so poor 
and miserable ? 

Martha. — I can not tell, Ben. God's ways are dark 
and past finding out. It seems hard that it should be 
so, but if it were not right it would not be. We must 
trust in the Lord and bear all without murmuring. 
[Ben darts out and returns bearing a large pocket-book.] 

Ben. — Look, Martha! See ! I've found a great big 
pocket-book, and I guess it's chuck full of money. 
[Opens it.] Oh, see what a lot of gold pieces ! 

Martha. — Put it in your pocket — quick, Ben I It is 
not safe for you to be displaying it on the street. [Ben 
puts it away.] Come here, Ben. Do you know who 
lost the pocket-book ? 

Ben. — I guess it was that fine lady or gentleman who 
came out of the store and got into the carriage. 

Martha. — Do j^ou know who they are ? 

Ben.— No I 

Martha. — It is Mr. Holland and his wife ; they are 
very wealthy. But what are you going to do with the 
money ? 

Ben. — Going to keep it, of course, and buy lots of 
good things to eat. But, I'm going to give you half 
of it, so that 3''ou can get the medicine for your mother 
and buy a whole heap of coal 



STANDARD DIALOG t/EiS 147 

MAKi'HA. — Is the money 3^011 rs, Ben ? 

Ben. — Yes — well — I don't know. I found it and 
those people*" are rich folks, and, you know, they don't 
need it. 

Martha. — Ben, you would be doing A'ery wrong to 
keep this money. It would be as bad to keep the 
money, belonging, as it does, to a rich man, as it would 
l)e to keep it, if it belonged to a poor man. It would 
not be honest to keep it ; and let me advise you to 
return it immediately. 

Ben. — Oh, how can I ? Just think how I am suffering 
every day for something to eat and for clothes to wear ; 
and think of your mother, who is lying sick and in need 
of assistance. The man is rich and will never miss the 
money. Oughtn't I to keep it ? 

Martha. — No, Ben ; you ought not. I know you 
suffer for want of bread and clothes and a comfortable 
home ; but trust in the Lord and be honest, and all 
will yet be well. 

Ben. — Well, I felt like a rich man a few minutes ago, 
but it is all gone now. I will take your advice, Martha, 
for you have alwaj^s been kind to me, and I know j^ou 
always do right. If you will tell me where the gentle- 
man lives, I will take the money to him right away. 

Martha. — He lives at No. 28 Seventh street, in the 
large brown-stone front. Remember the number — 28. 

Ben. — Yes. May I go home with you to-night, when 
I come back ? I am afraid to go back to my home ; I 
know old Dave will beat me if I do. 

Martha. — Yes, come back here and I will take you 
with me. [Exit Ben."] 

Scene 2. — M7\ Holland's parlor. Mr. and Mrs. Holland 
discovered. 

Mrs. Hollanp. — I am rather tired. It certainly was 
a long ride for i.^e after my illness, but I know it will 
do me good, and I will feel a great deal better after I 
become rested a little. [Putting her hand into her 
pocket.^ Oh, dear ! I've lost my pocket-book ! Or, 
perhaps, m}^ pocket w^as picked while I was in the store. 
No, it couldn't have been. It .must have dropped as I 
was getting into the carriage It contained something 
over a hundred dollars. 



148 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

Mr. H0LLA.ND. — Oh, well ; don't wony about it. You 
are not likely to get it again, but 'tis no difference. 1 
hope some poor person will find it and use the money 
to make himself comfortable. \_Enter servant.'] 

Servant. — Mr. Holland, here is a little boy who 
says he must see you. \_Exit servant.'] 
\_Enter Ben.] 

Ben. — Here, sir, is a pocket-book you or the lady heie 
dropped about half an hour ago in front of Mason's 
store. I have not disturbed the contents. Good even- 
ing, sir [about to retire], i^^ 

Mr. Holland. — Come back ; come back ; I want to 
talk to you. Be seated, my little man. 

Ben \with cap in hand]. — If you please, sir, I'd 
rather not. My clothes are ragged and dirty, and your 
chairs are grand. I will stand. 

Mr. Holland. — Pooh! You shant stand! Don't 
mind your clothes and the chairs — sit down — sit 
down ! The chairs have been occupied by persons who 
hadn't hsiif your honesty. Sit down, my honest little 
fellow — sit down ! Don't be afraid. \_Ben sits.] And 
you say you found this in front of Mason's store ? 

Ben. — Yes, sir. 

Mr. Holland. — Do you know how much money it 
contains ? ^ 

Ben. — No, sir; I opened it and looked in, but did 
not touch the money. 

Mr. Holland. — Here, Alice ; this is the pocket-book 
you dropped, isn't it ? Reward the honest little fellow 
as you see fit. 

Mrs. Holland. — Such honesty isn't often seen or 
heard of in this great wicked city, and I propose to 
reward him liberally. Here, my little friend, is the 
pocket-book as you found it. It contains something 
over one hundred dollars. Take it all and spend it as 
you choose. I know you will not spend it foolishly. 

Ben.— What ! All ? Oh, ma'am 1 I couldn't do that 1 
I will be very glad to have a few dollars, though, as I 
have no home and can hardly get enough bread to keep 
me alive. 

Mrs. Holland. — Have you no father or mother ? 

Ben. — ^No, ma'am. I have been living with a cross 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 149 

mail, who says he is my uncle. His name is Dave Han- 
son. He was going to beat me this morning, because 
I would not steal a package he told me to steal. I ran 
off, and do not like to go back again. 

Mr. Holland. — How would you like to stay with us ? 

Ben. — Oh, sir ; I would be delighted ! I would do 
any thing for you if you would only give me a good 
home. 

Mr. Holland. — Well, it is settled; you shall stay. 

Ben [yoith demonstrations of joy']. — Oh, sir; how kind 
3^ou are I I thank 3^ou very much and will do any thing 
for you. 

Mrs. Holland. — ^What is your name, my honest 
little friend ? 

Ben. — Ben Wilson, ma'am. I have no friends in the 
city except Martha Raymond, who keeps a cake and 
apple stand on North street. I was talking to her to- 
night at her stand, when I saw your pocket-book. She 
knew you, and told me where to find you. And — oh, I 
forgot ! I promised to go back there to-night, and she 
said she would take me home with her, as 1 had no 
place to stay. She is far honester than I am, for I 
wanted to keep the money, but she said it would be 
wrong, and talked so good to me about doing right and 
trusting in God, that I coukcn't keep the pocket-book. 
She is very poor and has a sick mother, and she says 
she needs medicine and refreshments. 

Mr. Holland. — Very well ; we will go to see them 
to-morrow morning and make them both comfortable. 
They shan't want for 2iny thing. 

Ben. — Thanks, kind sir ; and now how happy I am, 
and \_turning to audience'] how happy I will be, if the 
fair ladies and gentlemen before us will agree, tfiat 
" Honesty is the best policy^^ and approve the cours* of 
Ben, the Orphan Boy. 

[ Curtain falls.l 



150 STANDARD DIALOGUES 



THE CONVICT'S SOLILOQUY THE NIGHT 
BEFORE EXECUTION. 

[The convict should have on striped clothes— a shirt and 
pants — to represent a criminal; his face pale, eyes hollow, hair 
uncombed and matted. He should represent a person of about 
thirty years of age ; his feet fastened to the floor by a long-, heavy 
chain ; his hands confined by handcuffs. The light should be 
very dim, which will add to the effect. The piece requires a good 
actor and speaker ; one who has a good control of his voice.] 

Scene. — A prison cell, containing a low mattrass of straw, 
a table, and a pitcher. Curtain rises, and discovers 
him sleeping uneasily. He awakes with a wild start. 
As he gets deeply into the subject he rises and walks the 
floor. 

I have just dreamed a dream. Yes, with dreams my 
nights of slee])less horror are filled. Those half unreal, 
yet so terrible ; so full of horrid phantasy ; but 'tis not 
of those. No! I have dreamed a dream. I dreamed that 
/ was a boy again and had not here this gnawing pain. 
I was still by m}^ mother's side. Oh, my God ! my mo- 
ther I Why do /call on God? But that dream, oh, that 
dream. That it might be real again. Yes, I knelt at 
her knee in prayer. In prayer ? Yes, in prayer, for I 
prayed then. And if I had been told that /should some 
time see this, feel this, this, aZ^ this, and this but mj?- just 
part, I would have said and thought he lied who told 
me of it. 

But I was in prayer, at my mother's knee, my little 
hands, then innocent of guilt — my God ! how guilty now! 
by every crime they're stained— were clasped within her 
own, hers so loving, while her eyes of blue were hid 
from sight by those veined lids the while ; and there she 
prayed for her only child, for her boy, for me ; and such 
a prayer as touched my heart ; and such a praj^er as 
might cause angels to weep and fiends to cower. I have 
no heart ; I cast it from me long, long ago, in the dim 
past ; dimmed by the sins and crimes that rise up be- 
tween that time and this — the da3^s of happy 3^outh. 
Happy, did I say ? happiness is a word forgotten and 
unknown to me. 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 161 

And then I saw her anguish when she heard of my 
first sin. How pale she looked ! With what anguish 
unspeakable she looked on me, once her pride, now so 
fallen. Yet she loved me ; tried to woo me ba,ck to the 
paths of rectitude ; but in vain ; I was hardened ; I 
would not listen ; there was no hope, I said ; I spurned 
her love ; I was cold and cruel, though it broke my 
heart, for it was not stone then. At last she died. Oh I 
such a death ! Her last breath of agony a prayer for 
me, her hoy. 

And then that bright-eyed, merry girl ! Ha ! ha I I'll 
take to myself the bitter pleasure of thinking of her 
now for the last time. I loved her so well. How true, 
how good she was ! how like an angel ! Yes, with all my 
soul I loved her, and she returned my love two-fold. She 
would not believe that I had sinned ; she said they lied ; 
but the proof came all too strong ; it dazed her brain, and 
she ivas mad ! Oh God ! How fast I went down — down 
to the mouth of hell I Oh ! those fiends in angel form 
that first led me to drink wine ; those fiends that the 
world calls women — fiends ! How she held the red 
wine to my lips ! I drank ; I was lost — lost for ever. Ah ! 
how well do I remember the first time that I took the 
bright coin, that burned^ into my soul like a thing ac- 
cursed — took it from my employer's drawer to pay for 
the drink that my insatiable thirst demanded. It soon 
got to be an old story to me. Then I was found out. I 
fled. Oh God ! accursed, accursed ! My home gone, 
friends gone, soul ruined. I got money then ; ha ! ha ! 
and that game was soon stopped. I was pursued too 
closely. The fiends of darkness that gather round me 
begone I begone for a time ! There, what a fool I How 
I quake with fear ; for oh, I see his eyes — those eyes 1 
Oh! 'Twas in the dim wood at nightfall that I turned 
at bay. Ah ! they'd better have let me alone. The 
tiger, when it feels the pangs of hunger, is more merci- 
ful than was I — maddened with the liquid fires of hell — 
RUM I They became scattered ; I heard them searching; 
I crouched down under the bushes, down in the thick, 
black darkness that choked me ; he was close upon me ; 
I clutched the knife ; one step more ; with a spring I 
was upon him. Staggered for a moment he sprang back ; 



152 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

with my wild strength I clutched him ; I drove the 
knife into his bosom ; the hot blood squirted full in my 
face ; with a groan he fell on the ground. Again I was 
upon him ; this time, with truer aim, I drove the knife- 
blade to his heart's core ; there, in the ghostly moon- 
light, with his wild, startled gaze full upon me, and that 
terrible rattle in his throat — I fell back like one dead — it 
was my brother I I was his murderer ! How that white face 
stares out at me now ! those eyes ! I knew no more until 
I found myself Inere. They took me out for the eager 
rabble to gaze upon ; and I thought how many of you, 
fine folks, are yourselves making murderers with your 
accursed, demoniac, hellish drink '^ They condemned me 
to death — that jury of stern men — without leaving the 
room they returned their verdict. 'Twas but a mockery, 
a mere form, though I asked not for pity. I got none. 
When that murmur of applause went through the room, 
I sprang to my feet; he who had returned the verdict 
guilty — the foreman — was the damnable wretch who had 
sold me the poison which had brought me there ; he who 
had made me what I was ; he whose vile stuff had fired 
my brain when I did the deed, stood there before heaven 
and the world — pronounced me unfit to live ; he ! and 
he to live and curse the world yet longer with his hellish 
traffic — his traffic in souls ; he ! There in the gallery 
among the crowd of women who had come to hear the 
words which sealed my doom, was she who first held the 
wine cup to my lips ! She who scoffed when I scrupled 
to take it. I drank it. The serpent has stung me sore — 
aye, poisoned my soul to its death for all eternity. 
How I gave vent to the surging, fiery waves within ! 
They thought me mad. He, the vile wretch, sank down 
as if he had received his death blow. And well had it 
been for the world had it been so, and with all such as 
he. Pale and panting he cried for them to take me out; 
they dared not touch me, though my hands were fet- 
tered ; she, with a wild shriek, swooned, and they bore 
her away; well they might shrink as from the voice of 
doom. Oh 1 my lost spirit shall take keen pleasure, to 
which the joys of heaven were feeble, in haunting them. 
At last I sank back exhausted ; they led me passive out, 
while tbe crowd opened right and left, and stared as 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 153 

on an awful something — they knew not what. . . And 
to-morrow I die ! For the last time have I seen the sun 
set ; but once more am I to see the blue sky of heaven ; 
and then only to be suspended between it and the earth, 
in which m}' body is to lie. Hark ! the clock tolls the 
hour. [_A clock slowly and distinctly strikes twelve.'] Soon 
they will be at work on the — gallows. Listen I yes, 
there is the sound of the saw and hammer. \_Sound of car- 
penter'' s tools heard at work outside, and continue until cur- 
tain falls.'] Oh God ! can it be for me ? ani I to die ? To 
die — so soon ? God of mercy hear me ! Visit those who 
tempted me to fall as they deserve! And Jam lost! Pro- 
bation ended — lacking six short hours. And I am lost ! 
My mother! oh! my mother ! Nevermore to meet! my 

God! MY MOTHER ! 

[^Curtain slowly falls, while a dirge is •played.'] 



JOHN JONES'S FORTUNE. 

CHAKAGTERS. 

John Jones, a tailor. 
Sally Jones, his wife. 
David Aiken, a neighbor. 

Scene. — A room scantily furnished. John Jones seated 

cross-legs on a table, sewing. Sally i^reparing dinner. 

John. — Well, Sally, we are getting along swimmingly 
now, aint we ? We are poor, very poor, but I think you 
will agree with me that we are happy. I think you will 
agree with me that we are the happiest couple in the 
county. 

Sally. — Yes, John, I agree with you; I believe I 
always agree with you, and you alwa3's agree with me, 
and that's the way we happen to get along so well to- 
gether. 

John. — That's so, Sally ! Now there's the Smiths 
that live in the big brick house up on the hill 3'Onder, 
they don't get along ver^^ well. They say the old man 
and the old woman are continuall}^ fighting, and the 
boys have taken to drink and are fast becoming drunk 



154 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

ards. Tom was carried home tlie other night by two 
of his companions. He had been at a carousal in the 
village, and got so beastly drunk he couldn't ride. 

Sally. — I pity his parents, but, perhaps, they do not 
deserve pity, because if they had brought up their chil- 
dren properly they would not have turned out so. I'm 
glad we are not rich. If we were, something would go 
wrong. I might become lazy or you might become lazy, 
or — well, I don't know what might happen, but I'm sure 
we wouldn't be as happy as we are now. 

John. — That's so, Saflly ; but I don't think you need 
feel uneasy about it. It will be a long time before we 
are rich. But, you know, we are out of debt, and I think, 
if I work hard, I can make as much as we can eat and 
wear ; and, perhaps, in a year or two I can lay up a few 
dollars. 

\_Sally proceeds with her work, John sings a verse 
of the Star Spangled Banner."] 
*' Oh, say, can you see, by the dawn's early light, 

What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gledming, 
Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight, 

O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming ! 
And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air, 
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there. 
Oh, say, does that star spangled banner yet wave, 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave ?" 

[ Whistles the same tune a minute or two."] 

John. — I say, Sally, hav'n't you got dinner ready ? 
I'm as hungry as an ox. 

Sally. — Yes, it is nearly ready; but, you see, we 
hav'n't ver3^ much to eat to-day. I don't care for my- 
self, but I would like to have something better for you 
when you have to work so hard. 

John. — Oh, never mind me, Sally, I'll get along. 
But you work as hard as I do, Sall}^ — you know you 
do. I'll get a nice cut of beef this evening and some fresh 
fish, and we'll dine like kings to-morrow ; wont we, Sally ? 

Sally. — I'm sure, I'm satisfied with what we have. 1 
have no complaints to make so long as we have no sick- 
ness nor trouble. You know it is better to have a table 
scantih^ spread and be happy, than to have a table loaded 
with the richest viands and be unhappy. But come, now ; 
dinner is reidy for you. 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 155 

John. — And I'm ready for dinner. \^Puts down his 
sewing, and gets off the table.'] It's a glorious thing to 
have a good appetite, even if it does cost a little more 
than to have a poor one. \^Knock at the door — opened by 
John. David Aiken discovered.] Hallo, Dave I How 
do you do? Come in I 

David — No ; havn't time. 

John. — Oh, yes, come in, and have a bite of dinner ; 
we havn't much, but you know you are welcome. 

David [fumbling in his coat pocket]. — I know, but I 
can't stop. I've got a letter for you, but it has got 
mixed up with some of my papers, and I can't find it. 
Here it is. It came in this morning's mail, and as I 
was coming past I thought I'd bring it to you. 

John. — Thank ye, Dave, thank ye 1 [Uxit David.] 
Sally, I guess we'll let the dinner cool a few minutes 
till we read this letter — wonder who it can be from. 
[Opens letter.] It is dated from Bently. [Beads.] 
" Sir: — This is to inform you that your mother's uucle 
is dead, and has left you the sum of forty thousand dol- 
lars." [Stops reading, and shouts.] Hurrah I hurrah! 
Isn't that grand news, Sally ? 

Sally. — It is. Oh ! John, I'm so glad ! But I never 
heard you speak of the old gentleman who has left you 
the fortune. 

John. — Well, to tell the truth, I didn't know much 
about him. I knew m}'^ mother used to have an uncle 
out there somewhere, but I thought the old fellow was 
dead long ago. 

Sally. — Well, we are rich people now. We can buy 
that house and farm that is for sale down in Magoffin 
valley. 

John. — I guess we wont squander our money buying 
such poor land as that! We'll goto the city and live, 
and I'll set up an extensive clothing store. 

Sally. — Yes, and squander all your money before two 
years. 

John. — Sally, you'd better be careful ! You don't 
mean to say that I would go to drinking and gambling? 

Sally. — No, that wasn't what I meant, but that's 
what it will come to. Lots of people have tried to keep 
store in the city, and it has always ended in their break- 



156 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

ing tip ; !ind that's the way it will be with you ; and then 
after you have squandered all 3'our money that way 
you'll take to drink, and leave your poor wife and chil- 
dren to starve, and 

John. — Sally, shut up ! You are making a fool of 
yourself. I reckon I know something about buying and 
selling, and can take care of m}^ money. ^Sharply.'] 
Put the potatoes on the fire again ; I aint going to eat 
cold potatoes. 

Sally. — Well, if you don't like cold potatoes, you 
can put them on the fire 3^ourself I I aint going to run 
after you and be your nigger any longer. You're get- 
ting mighty big all at once ! 

John.— Sally, if you don't keep quiet I'll strap you 
Here, if you wont warm the potatoes I'll give them to 
the pigs. The}^ are little bits of things anj^how, and 
you didn't half wash them. \_Th7^ows the potatoes out of 
the window.'] You always were a dirty thing, and you 
never could wash potatoes. 

Sally. — There! take that, you low-lifed tailor 
[ Throws a plate at him.'] And that ! and that ! \_Throw$ 
cups and so.ucers.] You are the ugliest, hatefulest man 
in the world, and you ought to be 

John. — Sal., you old hag, I'll trounce you — I will I 
\_J'ohn raises a stick to strike her — she slaps him in the 
face, and screams.] 

[Enter David.] 

David [seizing John]. — Hello ! John ! what are you 
about? I'm ashamed of you I Here, I've run back to 
give you your letter. I gave you the wrong one. 

John. — Did you ? And I never looked at the en- 
velope. [Picks up the envelope.] Why, it's for John 
Jacobs. Tell him I opened it in a mistake. 

David. — Here's your letter. The envelopes are so 
much alike, and the names, too, that I very naturally 
made the mistake. Good-by, John ; and let me tell 
you if I see you trj-ing to whip your wife, the next 
time I come, I'll take you in hands m3^self, and give 
you a sound thrashing. 

John. — I'm ashamed of m^^self, Dave. Please say 
nothing about it. 

David. — All right. I'm mum. Good-by. [Exit David. 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 157 

ilonN.--^0\v, Sally, we'll read another letter. [Beads.^ 
" iSJB. : — Tlie cloth will be ready for you next Saturday, 
lours, etc., Hanley <fe Anderson." So, you see, our 
fortune ct" forty thousand has vanished. Well, I can't 
Bay that I am sorry. Are you, Sally ? 

Sally. — Truly, I am not. Let us forget our little 
trouble, and be happy again. As soon as we became 
rich we commenced to light ; now that we know we 
are poor again, we will be happy as in days gone by. 

John. — Yes, that we will ; and 1 sincerely hope that the 
letter will not raise the rumpus in John Jacobs' family, 
that it did here. But I'm as hungry as a half-starved hip- 
popotamus. We can't have potatoes for dinner, that's 
certain ; but let's eat something. And just before we 
go to dinner, I would say to our friends here before us, 
that riches do not alwa3's bring happiness ; and in proof 
of this I would refer you to the Fortune of John 
Jones, the Tailor. 

[_Cur tain falls.'] 



IN WANT OF A SERVANT. 

CHARACTERS. 

Mr. Marshall and Wife. Snowdrop Washington, 
Margaret O'Flanagan. Mrs. Bunker. 

Katrina Yan Follenstein. Freddie. 

Scene 1. — The breakfast-room of Mr. and Mrs. Mar- 
shall. Mr. Marshall smoking a cigar and enjoying the 
morning paper, with his heels on the mantel. 

Mrs. Marshall [_in a complaining tone']. — Oh, dear, 
Charles, how sick and tired I am of housework ! I do 
envy people who are able to keep help. Here I am tied 
up to the little hot kitchen from morning till night — 
stewing, and baking, and frying, and scrubbing, and 
washing floors, till I am ready to sink ! One thing right 
over and over again. I wonder why Hood, when he 
wrote the " Song of the Shirt," had not kept on and 
written the Song of the Basement Story. 
22 



158 STANDARD DIALOG S^S 

Mr. M. \_remocing his cigaj^']. — Is it so ver^'bad, Lilly? 
Why, 1 always thought it must be uice work to cook — 
and washing dishes is the easiest thing in the world. 
All you have to do is pour a little hot water on 'em and 
give 'em a flirt over with a towel. 

Mrs. M. — That's all you men know about it ; it is the 
hardest work in the world ! I always hated it. I remem- 
ber, when I was a little girl, I always used to be taken with 
the headache when mother wanted me to wash the dishes. 
And then she VI dose me with rhubarb. Ugh I how bitter 
it was ; but not half so bitter as washing dishes in boil- 
ing water in a hot kitchen in the middle of August ! 

Mr. M. [^meditatively taking his feet from the mantel^. 
— I made a lucky sale this morning, and saved a cool 
three hundred. I had intended giving you a new silk, 
but I'll do better — I'll hire you a girl. How will that 
suit? 

- Mrs. M. — Oh, what a darling I I would kiss 3^ou if 
you hadn't been smoking, and my collar weren't quite 
so fresh. 1 am afraid I shall muss it. But you are a 
good soul, Charlie ; and I shall be so happy. Do you 
really mean it ? 

Mr. M. — To be sure. 

Mrs. M. — Wont Mrs. Fitzjones die of envy ? She 
puts her washing out, and she's always flinging that in 
my face. I guess the boot will be on the other foot now! 
I wonder what she'll say when she runs in of a morning 
to see what I'm cooking, and finds me in the parlor hem- 
stitching a handkerchief, and my maid attending to 
things in the kitchen ? But where is a girl to be had ? 
Will you go to the intelligence office ? 

Mr. M. — No ; 1 don't approve of intelligence offices. 
I will advertise. Bring me a pen and ink, Lilly. 

Mrs. M. [bringing the articles']. — You wont say that 
to me any more, Charles. It will be, ' Biddy, my good 
girl, bring me the writing implements.' Wont it be 
nice ? Just like a novel. They always have servants, 
you know. 

Mr. M. — What, the novels ? 

Mrs. M. — No ; the people in them. Are you writing 
the advertisement ? Be sure and say that no one need 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 159 

apply except experienced persons. I want no green 
hands about my kitchen. 

Mr. M. ^reads from the _ paper what he has been 
writing^. — " Wanted, 1)y a quiet family, a girl to do gen- 
eral housework. None but those having had experience 

need apply. Call at Xo. 116 B street, between the 

hours of ten and two." How will that answer? 

Mrs. M. — Admirably ! Charles, you'd ought to have 
been an editor. You express your ideas so clearly ! 

Mr. M. — Thank you, my dear, thank you. I believe 
I have some talent for expressing my meaning. But I 
am going down town now, and wnl have this advertise- 
ment inserted in the Herald, and by to-morrow you can 
hold 3^ourself in readiness to receive applicants. By^^ 
bye. [_Goes out.~\ 

Mrs. M. \_alone'\. — If it isn't the most charming thing I 
Wont the Fitzjoneses and Mrs. Smith be raving ? Mrs. 
Smith has got a bound girl, and Mrs. Fitzjones puts out 
ber washing; but I am to have a regular servant I I 
shall get a chance to practice my music some now. 
Dear me — how red my hands are 1 \_Looks at them.'] I 
must get some cold cream for them ; one's hands show 
so on the white keys of a piano ! I'll go and open that 
piano now, and dust it. It must be dreadfully out of 
tune. But I'll have it tuned as soon as ever I get that 
girl fairly initiated into my way of doing work. \^Goes 
out."] 

Scene 2. — 3Irs. Marshall awaiting the coming of ^' ayplir 
cantsy A furious ring at the front-door hell. 

Mrs. M. [pieeping through the blinds']. — Dear me I 
I wonder who's coming! A person applying for the 
situation of servant would not be likely to come to the 
front door. I can just see the edge of a blue-silk flounce, 
and a streamer of red ribbon on the bonnet. I'll go and 
see who it is. 

r Opens the door, and a stout Irish girl, gaudily 
dressed, with an eye-glass, and. a waterfall of 
enormous dimensions, pushes by her, and entering 
the paidor seats herself in the rocking-chair.] 
Mrs. M. — To what am I indebted for this visit? 



160 STAND AKD DIALOGUES 

Irish Girl. — It looks well for the like of yees to askl 
It's the leddy what's wanting a young leddy to help in 
the wnrrk that I'm after seeing. 

Mrs. M. [_ivith dignity']. — I am that person, if you 
please. What may I call your name ? 

Irish Girl. — Me name's Margaret 'Flanagan, though 
some people has the impudence to call me Peggy ; but if 
ever the likes of it happens agin I'll make the daylight 
shine into 'em where it never dramed of shining before. 
What may your name be, mum ? 

Mrs. M. — My name is Marshall. I am in want of a 
servant. 

Margaret. — Sarvint, is it ? Never a bit of a sarvint 
will I be for anybody !' The blud of me forefathy would 
cry out against it. But I might have ixpected it from 
the apearance of yees. Shure, and I'd no other thought 
but ye was the chambermaid. Marshall, is it ? Holy 
St. Patrick ! why that was the name of the man that 
was hung in county Cork for the murthering of Dennis 
McMurphy, and he had a nose exactly like the one fore- 
ninst your own face. 

[A second ring at the door. Mrs. Marshall ushers 
in a stolid-faced German girl, and an over-dressed 
colored lady. They take seats on the sofa.'] 

German Girl. — Ish dis the place mit the woman what 
wants a girl in her housework that was put into de paper 
day pefore to-morrow ? 

Mrs. M. — Yes, I am the woman. What is your name ? 

German Girl. — Katarina Van Follenstein. I can do 
leetle of most every thing. I can bake all myself, and 
bile, and fry ; and makes sour-krout — oh, sphlendid I 
And I sphanks the children as well as their own 
mudders. 

Margaret. — If ye'll condescend to lave that dirty 
Dutchman, young leddy, I'll be afther asking ye a few 
[questions ; and then if ye don't shute me I can be laving. 
Me time is precious. Is them the best cheers in yer 
douse? 

Mrs. M. — They are. 

Margaret. — Holy Yargin ! Why, mum, I've been 
ised to having better cheers than them in me own room. 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 161 

and a sofy in me kitchen to lay me bones on when the\ ^re 
took aching. Have ye got a wine cellar ? 

Mrs. M. [indignantly^. — No! We are temperance 
people. 

Margaret.. — Oh, botheration! Then ye'll ni^er do 
for me, at all at all ! It's wine I must have ivery day 
to keep me stummach in tune, and if Barney O'Grath 
comes in of an avening I should die of the mortifications 
if I didn't have a drop of something to trate him on. 
And about the peanny. It's taking lessons I am, me- 
self, and if it's out of kilter, why, it must be fixed at 
once. I never could think of playing on a instrument 
that was ontuned. It might spile me voice. 

Mrs. M. — I want no servants in my house who are 
taking music lessons. I hire a girl to do my work — not 
to dictate to me, and sit in the parlor. 

Margaret. — Ye don't hire me. No mum ! Not Dy a 
long walk. It's not Margaret O'Flanigan that'll be 
hosted round by an old sharp-nosed crayter like yeself, 
wid a mole on yer left cheek, and yer waterfall made out 
of other folks' hair ! The saints be blessed, me own is 
an illegant one — and never a dead head was robbed for 
to make it ! 'Twas the tail of me cousin Jimmy's red 
horse — rest his soul 1 

Mrs. M. [pointing to the door"]. — You can leave the 
house, Miss 'Flanagan. You wont suit me. 

Margaret. — And 3^ou wont shute me ! I wouldn't 
work with 3^e for a thousand dollars a week I It's not 
low vulgar people that Margaret 'Flanagan associates 
with. Good-by to ye ! I pity the girl ye gets. May 
the saints presarve her — and not a drop of wine in the 
house I \_3Iargaret goes out.'] 

Mrs. M. —Well, Katrina, are you ready to answer a 
few questions ? 

Katrina. — Yah. I is. 

Mrs. M. — Are you acquainted with general house- 
work ? 

Katrina. — Nix. I never have seen that shinneral. J 
know Shinneral Shackson, and Shinneral Grant, but not 
that one to speak of! 

Mrs. M. — I intended to ask if you are used to doing 
rv^ork in the kitchen ? 



162 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

Katrina. — Yaw. I sees. Dat ish my thrade. 

Mrs. M. — Can you cook ? 

Katrina. — Most people, what bees shenteel, keeps a 
cook. 

Mrs. M. — I do not. I shall expect you to cook. Can 
you wash ? 

Katrina. — Beeples what ish in de upper-crust puts 
their washing out. 

Mrs. M. — Can you make beds, and sweep ? 

Katrina. — The dust of the fedders sthuffs up my 
head, what has got one leetle giutar into it. Most 
beeples keeps a chamber-maid. Now, I wants to ask 
you some tings. You gits up in the morning, and gits 
breakfast, of course ? It makes mine head ache to git 
up early. And you'll dust all the furnitures, and schrub 
the kittles, and your goot man will wash the floors, and 
pump the water, and make the fires, and 

Mrs. M. — We shall do no such thing. What an inso- 
lent wretch ! You can go at once. I've no further use 
for you. You won't suit. 

Katrina [_retreating']. — Mine krout I what a particular 
vomans. 

Colored Lady. — Wall, missis, specks here's jest de 
chile for ye. What wages does you gib ? and what is 
yer poUyticks ? 

Mrs. M.- — What is your name — and what wages do 
you expect ? 

Colored Lady. — My name is Snowdrop Washington, 
and I specks five dollars a week if I do my own wash- 
ing, but if it is put out to de washerwoman's wide de 
rest of de tings, den I takes off a quarter. And it's 
best to have a fair understanding now, in de beginning. 
I'm very perticular about my afternoons. Tuesdays 1 
studies my cataplasin and can't be 'sturbed ; Wednes- 
days I goes to see old Aunt Sally Gumbo, what's got de 
spine of de back ; Thursdays I allers takes a dose of 
lobeel}" for me stummuch, and has to lay abed ; and Fri 
days 1 ginerally walks out wid Mr. Sambo Snow, a fren 
of mine — and in none of dem casins can I be 'sturbed. 
And I shall spect you to find gloves for me to do de 
work in ; don't like to sile my hands. 



1 



STANBARB DIALOGUES 163 

Mrs. M. — I want to hire a girl to work — every day — 
and every hour in the day. 

Snowdrop. — The laws-a-massy I what a missis I Why, 
in dat case dis chile haint no better off dan wite trash ! 
Ketch Snowdrop Washington setting in dat pew ! Not 
dis nigger ! I wish you a berry lubly morning I 

[^Goes out, and a woman clad in widow'' s weeds, and 
a little hoy, enter. '] 

Woman \in a brisk tone']. — Are you the person that 
wants to hire help ? Dear me, don't I smell onions ? 
I detest onions I Only vulgar people eat 'em ! Have 
your children had the measles ? Because 1 never could 
think of taking Freddie where he might be exposed to 
that dreadful disease. Freddie, my love, put down that 
vase. If you should break it, you might cut yourself 
with the pieces. Have j^ou a dog about the house, marm ? 

Mrs. M. — Yes, we have. 

Woman in black. — Good gracious ! he must be killed 
tUen I I shouldn't see a bit of comfort if Freddie was 
where there was a dog. The last words my dear la- 
mented husband said to me were these : '' Mrs. Bunker, 
take care of Freddie." Bunker's my name, marm. Have 
you a cow ? 

Mrs. M. — W^e have not. 

Mrs. Bunker. — How unfortunate ! Well, I suppose 
you can buy one. Freddie depends so much on his new 
milk ; and so do I. How many children have you ? 

Mrs. M. — Three. 

Mrs. Bunker. — Good gracious I what a host ! I hope 
none of them have bad tempers, or use profane lan- 
guage. I wouldn't have Freddie associate with them for 
the world if they did. He's a perfect cherub in temper. 
My darling, don't pull the cat's tail I she may scratch 
you. 

Mrs. M. — You need not remain any longer, Mrs. Bun- 
ker. I do not wish to employ a maid with a child. 

Mrs. Bunker. — Good heavens [indignantly'] ! Who- 
ever saw such a hard-hearted wretch I Object to my 
darling Freddie ! Did I ever expect to live to see the 
day when the offspring of my beloved Jeremiah would 
be treated in this way ! I'll not stay another moment in 
the house with such an unfeeling monster I Come, 



164 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

Freddie. [Goes out. Mrs. Marshall closes the door and 
locks it.'] 

Mes. M. — Gracious ! if this is the way of having a 
servant, I am satisfied. I'll do my own work to the end 
of the chapter ! There's another ring ; but I wont answer 
it — not I. I'll make believe I'm not at home. Ring 
away, if it 's any satisfaction to you ! It doesn't hurt me. 



HOW THEY KEPT A SECRET. 



CHAEACTEES 

Mrs. Hobbs 
Julia 



Mrs. Webster. 



Miss Prince. 
Mrs. Blaisdell. 
James, her son. 
Mrs. Parker. 



Scene 1. — Mrs. Hobbs' sitting-room. Mrs. Hobbs darn- 
ing stockings. Julia Ann crocheting. Dick whittling. 

Mks. Hobbs \_glancing from the loindoiv]. — Goodness 
airth! Julia Ann! who's that 'ere a-coming up street? 
I '11 declare if it haint Mis' Webster ! Yes, I should know 
that red-and-blue shawl, if I should see it in Canady 1 
She's allers etarnally upon the go! No weather stops 
her ! Yer father sed, the other day, that the town ort to 
pay her for brushing out the roads ! And in this awful 
snow-storm, too, w^hen it 's too bad for any mortal critter 
to be out of doors — who 'd a-thought of her turning out ? 
I declare! I must say she's hard drove! Got something 
or ruther to tell of about somebody, I '11 be bound ! Take 
them clothes out of that cheer ! Brush up the hearth ! 
quick! and hand me my t'other specks! There, she's 
a-rapping ; go to the door ! 

[Julia ushers in Mrs. Webster, a middle-aged lady in 
spectacles.'] 

Mrs. H. [rising]. — Why, goodness airth ! Mis' Web- 
ster! Wall, if I haint beat! Why, who'd a-thought 
of seeing you? I was jest a-telling Julia Ann that I 
didn 't believe but what you was sick abed, I hadn 't seen 
you out for so long ! I was a-saying to Eben this morning, 



STANDABi) DIALOGUlSS 165 

that I 7nust try and git a chance to go over to your house 
to-day — and Eben, he — 

Mrs. Webster. — It snows a little, to be sure, and I 
s'pose I hadn 't ort to have come out in it ; but I 'd got 
tired to death a-staying in the house. I told Uncle 
Thomas this morning, that I must walk out somewhere 
and get the air, or I should have the rickets. And Uncle 
Thomas he sed, " Most assuredly." But I'm one of that 
kind that can't live without the air, no how! , I don't 
think I should survive a month, if I was shot up in a 
place where I couldn 't git no air ! 

Mrs. H. — No, I reckon not. We couldn't take no 
comfort, at all, without it ! It 's dreadful nice to set a 
body up ! Bracing like ! 

Mrs. W. — Wonderful ! La ! here 's Julia Ann. I was 
so snow-blinded, when I come in, that I didn't notice it 
was her ! How do you do, Julia Ann ? 

Julia. — Very well, thank you. 

Mrs. W. — Law ! how perlite you have got to be, sence 
you went to the academy. It 's stuck you right up, haint 
it ? Julia, is that all your own hair on yer head ? or is 
it false ? 

Julia. — It is my own. 

Mrs. W.— Law! is it? Wall, I declare! I didn't 
know you had such a mop of hair ; should think it would 
make yer head ache ! 'Taint wholesome to have so much 
hair ! I should think you 'd feel top-heavy. Why, I 
wouldn 't have my hair done up so for all the world ! 

Dick. — Didn 't know you had any hair, Mrs. Webster. 
Thought you wore a wig. Tom Smith said so. 

Mrs. W. \jindignantly']. — Tom Smith is a — very bad 
boy! 

Dick. — Well, he said he looked through the window, 
one night, and saw you peel your head till it looked just 
like a boiled turnip, any how. 

Mrs. H. — Dick, keep quiet, or leave the room ! 

Dick — Yes, marm. 

Mrs. W. — Children are dreadful nuisances, Mrs. Hobbs. 
I declare I can't feel sufficiently grateful to Providence 
for my freedom from the little torments. I trust I shall 
always be spared in that way ! 

Dick laside]. — Guess you needn't worry. 



166 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

Mrs. H. — Do take oflP your bonnit, Mis' Webster. 

Haint you got your knitting along ? 

Mrs. W. — No. I mustn 't stop long. Have yon heern 
from Deacon Skinner's wife lately ? 

Mrs. H. — No. Not sence day afore yesterday. Pritty 
sick, aint she? 

Mrs. W. — Law, yes ! Wall, poor soul ! 'taint no won- 
der ! ah me ! no wonder at all. 

Mrs. H. — Why, how you talk. Mis' Webster ! What 
do you mean ? 

Mrs. W. [with a mysterious shake of the head']. — Ah, it's 
no matter what I mean ! Poor woman ! Poor Ruth 
Abby ! Well may she look forward with rejoicing to the 
time when she will shovel off this mortal coil ! 

Mrs. H. — What on airth do you mean ? Do tell ! 

Mrs. W. — Oh, it's no consequence what I mean ! None 
at all ! I wouldn 't breathe a word of it to anybody, for 
the world ! No, not for the world ! I 'd cut my tongue 
out first ! 

Mrs. H. — Goodness airth ! It must be something 
dreadful! Do tell me, Mis' Webster! I'll be jest as 
secret as a gravestone ! I wont never breathe a syllable 
of it to nobody ! never ! Don 't be afeard to trust me ! 

Mrs. W. — Oh, don 't ask me, Mrs. Hobbs. I mustn 't 
let out a whisper of it ! I declare, I felt so about it after 
I heerd of it, that I never slept a wink last night ! I laid 
and tossed, and turned, and heerd the clock strike every 
time ! And if there 's anything tejus, it 's laying awake 
nights. 

Mrs. H. — That 's so. Now, whar I lived up to Harry 
Wrough, I got into jest such a fix. I didn't sleep nights 
any more than as if I'd been into the fire ! It's awful to 
git in that way ! 

Mrs. W. — Dreadful ! especially when your narves is as 
distractioned as mine is ! I haint been so slim in health 
for years as I am now. I went to Durham the other day, 
to see that new doctor ; and he skairt me nigh about to 
death. He says I 've got the information of the brong- 
key, and that it will bring on the brown creeters, and 
likely enuff" the new money. And he said that I'd got 
symptoms of catechisms growing over my eyes, and my 
disgustin organs is in an awful condition. Such a state 



STANDARD DIALOGUES • 167 

of decease he says lie 's seldom seen in one person ! And 
my stomach is out of order, and my liver ; and he says 
I'm the most rebellious of any body he ever seed ! 

Mes. H. — Goodness airth ! Wall, that's dreadful! 
Wali, now, when I lived up to Harry Wrough, I got 
jest so. Dr. Smith he ixaminated me, and said if I didn't 
take some cally-mill, I should be in danger of going into 
the hydrostatick fits without delay ! He sed my stomach 
hadn't got any grass-stick juice into it. 

Mrs. W. — A little thing upsets me. And when I 
heerd this about Deacon Skinner, I thought I should 
have swoonded ! He, a deacon, and a pillow of the 
church ! and his wife still alive ! Oh, it 's awful ! awful ! 

Mrs. H.— Do tell. Mis' Webster ! do, dear ! I'll never 
whisper it — not even to Eben ! no, never ! 

Mrs. W. — I know I hadn 't ort to lisp it to a single 
creeter ! But I have so much confidence in you, Mrs. 
Hobbs. Send them children out, though. 

Mrs. H. — Julia Ann, you and Dick go out in t'other 
room! [They go ouf] There, Mis' Webster, there's 
nobody in hearing now. Let's hear it. 

Mrs. W. — Wall, Deacon Skinner was seen to kiss a 
woman, night afore last, in his own front entry ! a woman 
that come in the last train ; and wore curls, and had a 
black satchel, and cheeks red as your Julia Ann's. And 
what 's more, that woman is there now ! ! 

Mrs. H. — Gracious airth ! How awful ! how dreadful ! 
Dear, deary me ! And he a going to prayer-meeting, and 
talking like an angel ! Why, only last Sunday night, 
his talk w^as so affecting, that the tears fairly run down 
over my nose, and I felt so w^eak you might have knocked 
me down with a feather ! Wall 1 wall ! what is the world 
a-coming to ? If Deacon Skinner has fell, then the Lord 
presarve us all ! 

Mrs. W. — Wall, there haint no mistake about this 'ere ; 
for Seth Holmes that works to our 'us, seed the sight with 
his own eyes, and is ready to swear to it ! But, I declare, 
it's eleven o'clock, and I must be a-gwine! Do come 
over, Mrs. Hobbs. 

Mrs. H. — Why need you hurry. Mis' Webster? It is 
such a treat to see you ! Do come over often, do ! Why 
can't you stop and git some dinner? 



168 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

Mrs. "W. — I can't, to-day; you come and see me. 
Good-day. 

Mrs. H. — Good-day, Mis' Webster. [Mrs. Webster 
goes ouf] Wall, of all things ! Deacon Skinner onfaith- 
ful ! Wall, I allers thought there was an evil look about 
his eyes ! The heart is deceitful and desprit wicked, the 
Scripture says, and it 's the truth ! I must run over and 
see if Mis' Blaisdell has heern it ! If she haint, I guess 
she'll stare some, for she thinks there haint nobody on 
the footstool but Deacon Skinner's folks. [ Calls.'] Julia ! 
Julia ! come in here, and keep this pot a-biling ! I 'm 
a-biling some corned beef for your father to kerry into 
the woods for his dinner to-morrow. I 've got to go over 
to Mis' Blaisdell's, to get her reseet for making hop yeast. 
Shan 't be gone long. 

[ Curtain falls.'] 

Scene 2. — The Jcitchen of Mrs. Blaisdell. Present, Mrs. 
Blaisdell and her son James. Miter Mrs. Hohhs. 

Mrs. Blaisdell. — Ah, good morning, Mrs. Hobbs! 
Good morning. Snowy, isn 't it ? Sit up by the fire, and 
warm, do. 

Mrs. Hobbs. — Thank ye, I haint cold. And I mustn 't 
stop long. Thought I'd jest run over a minnit, and see 
if you was dead, or alive. Health good, this winter ? 

Mrs. B. — Tolerable. The rheumatism troubles me 
some. How are you ? 

Mrs. H. — Very well, for me. James, how does the 
world use you ? 

James. — Kindly, thank you. 

Mrs. H. — Skate any ? 

James. — Yes, when there is any ice. 

Mrs. H. — You must come over and learn Julia Ann. 
She's jest beginning, and it comes rather hard for her, 
not having no grown up brother. 

James — I shall be very happy to come any time. 

Mrs. B. — What's the news, Mrs. Hobbs? General 
time of health, isn't it? 

Mrs. H. — Yes, I believe everybody is well except Mis' 
Deacon Skinner. By the way, have you heern from her 
lately? 



STANDAED DIALOGUES 



169 



Mrs. B. — Yes, James was over there last night, aud 
she — dear me ! if here ain 't Miss Prince, and Mis' Parker ! 
\_Enter two ladies.'] Why, how do you do ? What stran- 
gers you are ! 

Miss Prince. — Dear sake! Why, here's Mis' Hobbs! 
Quite a tea party. Mis' Blaisdell ! 

Mrs. Parker. — And I with this old hood on ! If I 'd 
a-thought of seeing anybody, I 'd a-dressed up a little. 

Mrs. H. — We was jest speaking of Mis' Deacon Skin- 
ner. Have you heern anything about her ? 

Miss Prince. — We've heern enufl" about him! Oh, 
dear me ! Mis' Blaisdell, have you heerd that dreadful 
story about Deacon Skinner ? 

Mrs. H.— Then, it's got out? 

Mrs. Parker. — Got out ! it 's all over town ! And it 
ort to git out ! I, for one, don 't feel under no obligations 
to keep it ! though I promised Mis' Webster I would. 

Miss Prince. — It ort to be put into the newspapers, 
and be telegraphed from one end of the country to the 
other ! Such conduct is shameful in such a man as Dea- 
con Skinner perfesses to be ! 

Mrs. Parker. — A man that sets hisself up as a model ! 
and a Deacon, too ! 

Mrs. H. — And a pillow of the church ! 

Mrs. B. — For pity's sake, good people, what has Dea- 
con Skinner done ? 

Miss Prince. — Is it possible you haven 't heard ! 

Mrs. Parker. — I thought everybody knowed it ! Poor 
Mis' Skinner ! my heart aches for her ! If it was my hus- 
band, I know I 'd scald him ! He 'd ort to be hung, and 
then kept on bread and water for a fortnight ! 

Miss Prince. — Hanging is too good for him ! Thank 
fortune ! I 've never had nothing to do with none of the 
men sect. 

Mrs. B. — Do explain vourselves. 

Mrs. H.— He 's unfaithful ! He— 

Mrs. Parker. — He 's got a woman there that he — 

Miss Prince. — Was seen to kiss twice or three times, 
in his front entry, night afore last ; and — 

Mrs. H. — She 's young, and wears curls ! and come in 
the last train — 

Miss Prince. — And had a black satchel, and a gilt 



170 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

fandangle on her bonnit, and black eyes, and cheeks that 
was altogether too red to be nat'ral ! Thank goodness ! 
everybody knows I don't paint ! \_Looks in the glass, and 
gives her cheeks a sly pinchJ] 

Mrs. H. — Such doings is dreadful ! James, what are 
you laffing at ? 

Mrs. Parker. — You 'd better cry than laff. 

Mrs. B. — Ladies, you are laboring under a mistake — 

Mrs. H. — No, it come correct. Seth Holmes seed him 
kiss her, with his own eyes ! 

James — He did, did he? Well, I hope it did him 
good. And I don't blame the deacon for kissing her. 
I'd try the operation myself, if I had a chance. 

Mrs. H. — Why, James Blaisdell ! I allers thought you 
was a moral young man ! If them 's your principles, you 
needn't take the trouble to come over to go skating with 
my Julia Ann. 

Mrs. B. — Ladies, allow me to explain. The lady who 
came night before last in the cars, was Lucy Skinner, the 
deacon's youngest sister, and she came to take care of 
Mrs. Skinner, who, I am happy to say, is a great deal 
better. I don't see anything wrong in a man's kissing 
his own sister. 

Mrs. H.— Wall, I declare ! how folks will git up stories ! 
I didn 't railly believe it, when I heerd it ! Deacon Skin- 
ner is such a nice man, and has been so long a pillow of 
the church. 

Miss Prince. — Mis' Webster is a dreadful gossip! 
Thank goodness, I never talk scandal ! 

Mrs. Parker. — People ort to be keerful how they re- 
port such stories. I, for one, never make a practice of 
going about, talking about my neighbors ; I have some- 
thing else to attend to. 

[ Curtain falls.'] 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 171 



STEALING APPLES. 

CHARACTEES. 

Squike Pitman. 

Sylvester, Squire Pitman's Servant. 

Scene. — Squire Pitman in his Library, reading a news- 
paper. A noise at the door. Enter Reuben and James, 
each ivith a boy. 

James. — Here they are, sir ! 

Keuben. — We've caught the little rascals at last, sir. 
We told you they were stealing all your apples. 

Squire Pitman. — Bless my soul ! and what are their 
names ? 

James. — This one is Tom Grey, and the other one is 
Frank Green. 

Reuben. — Squire, just you give us the word, and we'll 
lay this new cowhide on their little ragged backs, till they 
are satisfied to let the apples alone. \_Shahing the boys, 
and flourishing the whip.'] 

Squire P. — I shall give no such command. . . . You 
may leave them here with me. 

Reuben. — You are not going to let them go, are you ? 
for now's your time to lick them, since the little thieves 
have been caught. 

Squire P. — Very well, you may go and leave the 
young gentlemen with me ; I will attend to them. 

Reuben. — But you will want this whip, wont you? 
[^cautiously letting go of the boys.] 

Squire P. — No, I shall have no need of it ; you may 
take it away. \_Exit James and Reuben. Thomas and 
Frank shy off, as Squire Pitman apjrroaches them.] Boys, 
you needn't be afraid, — I am very happy to see you. I 
like to receive visits from young people, though I think it 
better, in such cases, for them to come through the gate 
and not get over the fence, as they are liable to tear their 



172 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

clothes. [Frank looks at his torn trowsers.'] Pray, sit 
down. [ They sit dow7i on the corners of two chairs.^ How 
old are you, Thomas ? I believe that is your name ? 

Thomas. — Twelve, sir. 

Squire P. — And you, Frank? 

Frank. — I am twelve, too. 

Squire P. — And I am seventy ! It is really kind of 
you to call upon an old gentleman like me. But the 
evenings are short; you ought to have come earlier. 
[ Waiting a moment.'] Are you fond of fruit, Thomas ? 

Thomas \]iesitatingly\ — Y-e-e-s, sir. 

Squire P. — Do you like it, too, Frank ? 

Frank. — Pretty well. 

Squire P. — So I suppose ; ,inost boys do. [Rings a bell. 
Enter Sylvester.] 

Sylvester. — I am at vour service, sir. 

Squire P. — You may bring in some knives and plates, 
and lay them on the table here. 

Sylvester. — Yes, sir. [ Goes oat'] 

Squire P. [to boys]. — I suppose you could eat a few 
apples to-night, couldn 't you ? 

Thomas and Frank together. — Yes, sir. 

Squire P. — I generally keep a little fruit to treat the 
friends who are kind enough to call upon me. 

[ The knives and plates are brought in, and Squire Pit- 
man brings a basket of apples from a closet] 

Squire P. — Help yourselves. [Boys, apjjarently ashamed, 
commence to eat] Do you like them ? 

Thomas. — Yes, sir; they're tip-top. 

Squire P. — I'm glad you think so. I have several 
apple-trees in my garden. James, the gardener, was tell- 
ing me that there was some danger of boys getting in, and 
robbing the trees ; but I don 't have any fears on that 
score. [Thomas and Frank exchange glances.] If auy 
of the boys w^ant fruit, I know they would prefer to come 
and ask me for it, or drop in and make a friendly call, as 
you are doing. By the way, wouldn 't you like to carry 
home a few apples with you ? 

Thomas and Frank [hesitatingly]. — Yes, sir. 

Squire P. — If you had something to put them in ? 

Thomas. — I 've a handkerchief. 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 173 

Frank. — And [ 've got a bag. [^Holding uj) one.'] 

Squire P.^ — Bless my soul, how thoughtful you were, to 
bring a bag ! It will be just the thing. You're welcome 
to the apples in that basket, if you can stow them away. 

Thomas. — We are very much obliged to you. 

Squire P. — Oh, don 't say a word. It is a mere trifle, 
and I like to make some acknowledgment for your kind 
call. Will you call and see me again ? 
■ Frank. — Yes, sir, if you would like it. 

Squire P. — I should be most happy to have you come. 
I get lonesome sometimes, and young company cheers me 
up. Perhaps, however, you 'd better come to the door, as 
it is a little dangerous climbing over fences. Now, you 
can go. [Taking the boys by the hand and leading them 
to the door.] Good-bye, — you will remember to come and 
see me again, wont you ? [Exit Squire Pitman.] 

Frank. — Aint he a trump ? 

Thomas. — That 's so ! I felt awful mean, to have him 
treat me so, when I had come after his apples. 

Frank. — So did I. When he told about tearing 
clothes, climbing over fences, how he looked at mine ! 

Thomas. — Yes, and how he called us gentlemen ! Oh, 
I felt so mean, when he was telling what the gardener 
said about the boys stealing the apples, and he looked at 
us so slyly, that I didn 't know what to do. 

Frank. — If those two men had whipped us as they 
wanted to, [doubling up his fist,] 1 would have stolen all 
the fruit he had ; but I wont now. 

Thomas. — Neither will I. You '11 never catch me in 
such a scrape again. 

Frank [to the audience]. — 

Speak gently to the erring one ! 

Oh, let us ne'er forget, 
However darkly stained by sin, 

He is our brother yet ! 



Thomas.- 



Forget not, brother, thou hast sinned, 
And sinful yet mayst be ; 

Deal gently with the erring heart. 
As God hath dealt with thee. 



Frank a'nd Thomas together. — 



Love is the golden chain that binds 

The happy souls above; 
And he 's an heir of heaven that finds 

His bosom filled with love. 



23 



174 STANDARD DIALOGUES 



PLAYING FOURTH OF JULY. 

CHAKACTEKS. 

Mary, Frank, Sam, Lucy, Cora, \ni,nHrpn 
Willie, Kate, Harry, John, Hattie, / '-^^^^^^^«"- 

Scene 1. — Sitting-room, tvith chairs, table, etc. Mary and 
Kate sewing ; Cora and Hattie playing with dolls in one 
corner ; Lucy standing at the ivindoiv ; Frank and John 
playing checkers; Sam reading ; Willie playing with 
blocks ; Harry rummaging Kate^s work-basket. 

Lucy. — I do wish it would quit raining. 

John. — So do I ; it 's tiresome staying in the house. 

Harry. — I don 't know what to do wdth myself. 

Kate \to Harry']. — Let my work-basket alone, and 
behave yourself ! 

Harry. — Can't! [Tickles Kate's ear with a straw.] 

Willie. — I wish 'twould twit rainin'. 

Kate [to Willie']. — Why, you little pet! [To Harry.] 
Harry, do let me alone ! 

Willie. — 'Cause mother would tum home 'en. 

Frank. — Let's play something. 

Cora. — We've played everything. 

Harry. — Let 's play something new ! 

Kate. — How do you play it ? 

Harry. — Oh, how sharp! You've been visiting the 
grindstone lately, haven 't you ? 

Willie. — Let's pay Kismas. 

Lucy. — Christmas doesn 't come in the summer. 

Willie. — T'anksgivin' 'en. 

Lucy. — Thanksgiving doesn't, either. 

Cora. — Willie is thinking about the cakes and goodies. 

Mary. — ^You needn 't think of goodies, until mother 
gets back ; I 'm cook now. 

Harry [pointing at Mary]. — Wouldn't she make a 
good step-mother ? 

John. — She would starve the poor little young ones 
to death. 

Sam. — Let 's play Fourth-of- July ! 

All [jumping up].— Good. ! good I 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 175 

Hattie. — How will we play it ? 

Sam. — We '11 have music, and march around, and have 
the Declaration of Independence read, and an oration, 
and a dinner, &c. 

Mary.— You seem determined to have eating going 
on ; but I warn you that the pantry key is lost, and the 
windows fastened. 

John. — Whew ! isn 't she savage ? 

Cora. — We can pretend to eat, like Hattie and I do 
at our doll dinners. 

Sam. — Come, let 's begin. 

Kate. — Yes, Sam 's in a hurry to make a speech. We '11 
appoint him orator of the day. 

All. — Agreed ! 

Mary. — And Harry reader of the Declaration. 

John. — The Declaration is a dry old thing. 

Frank [doubling up his fists'].— How dare you say so ? 
You ought to be thrashed ! Why, the Declaration of In- 
dependence is the guarantee of personal liberty, the cradle 
of American freedom, the — 

Harry". — The velocipede of politicians. 

John. — Don't care, it's stupid. We'll all be snoring 
before he 's half through. 

Frank. — How do you know, you 've never read it ? 

Lucy. — It 's too long, and I don 't know where one is. 

Frank. — Do you mean to insinuate that we, a family 
of American citizens, haven 't a Declaration of Indepen- 
dence in the house ? 

Harry. — Oh, fudge ! I '11 make one. 

Lucy. — Capital ! make one better than the original. 

Cora. — What else ? 

Sam. — You and Hattie shall be committee on table 
arrangements, since you understand the rare art of getting 
up splendid dinners out of nothing. 

Frank. — And Kate shall be marshal, and John and I 
musicians. 

Hattie. — And Willie flag-bearer. 

Willie. — S'ant we have torpedoes ? 

Frank. — Yes, you youngster, all we can find. 

Mary. — Come, let's get ready. 

[ Curtain falls."] 



176 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

Scene 2. — Same room. Two barrels, ivith a stool on each, 
at one end of the room; chairs, arranged in two roius, 
in front of the barrels. Enter Kate, ivith scarlet sash 
knotted about her waist, a boy's cap with three feathers stuck 
in it on her head, and a rolling-pin in h&r right hand. 

Kate. — All clear ! Forward, march ! 

\_The procession marches in, headed by Willie, carrying 
a flag, and John and Frank trying to play Yankee 
Doodle on a tin pan and a whistle. The others folloio, 
two by two, and march around several times. ~\ 

Kate. — Halt ! Speakers will take their places on the 
platform ; audience, be seated ; flag-bearers and musicians, 
up front ! 

\_T hey follow directions, Harry mounting one barrel, and 
Sam the other.'] 

Kate \_unfolds a large sheet of brown pa2:)er, and reads:] 
Attention ! Order of exercises : First, Martial music, 
Hail Columbia, by the famous Newport band. Second, 
Reading of the Declaration of Independence, by the won- 
derful elocutionist, the Honorable Henry Moore, M. T>. 

Frank. — Mud Digger ! 

Kate [reads:]. — Third, Song, Star Spangled Banner, 
by the celebrated Prima Donna, Lucina D'Ane. Fourth, 
Oration, by the world-renowned orator. Professor Samuel 
Deane, LL. D. 

John. — Long-Legged Dunce ! 

[Sail Columbia is played.] 

Harry [rising and bowing]. — Beloved brethren and 
sisters — 

Willie. — He's a-goin' to preach. 

Harry. — Most talented hearers. I call your attention 
to the most remarkable document of modern times, the 
Declaration of Independence, [unrolls a piece of tvall- 
jmper or a window-shade, and reads :] We hold this to be a 
geometrical axiom, that all men are created equal, except 
the " heathen Chinee," that — 

Sam. — Hold on ! that wont do. It conflicts with my 
oration. By virtue of that Declaration, America wel- 
comes to her shores the down-trodden of every nation. 

Frank. — It's just right. A Chinaman run to pig-tail 
isn 't half as good as I am. 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 177 

Sam. — He's a sight better. 

Harry.— What shall I do ? 

Sam. — Say all men. 

Harry. — Well, then ; [reads ;] We hold this to be a 
geometrical axiom, that all men are created equal, that — 

Mary. — I wont stand that. You 've got to say some- 
thing about the women. 

Harry. — The word men, here, means women too. 

Mary.' — Oh, yes ! but when you get a little further along, 
to the voting and holding office, you say it means men only. 

Frank. — Ho, ho ! woman rightist ! 

Harry. — Anything to please the crown. \_Reads ;] We 
hold this to be a geometrical axiom, that all men, women 
and children are created equal ; that they have the right to 
earn their bread and molasses, to pay for their ice-cream, 
to go hunting, to play base ball, and to stand on their 
heads. The man, at present perched on the British throne, 
having meddled with these rights, oppressed us in various 
ways, insulted and abused us, and acted like a tyrant, we 
hereby declare ourselves out of the clutches of the British 
lion, and determined to whale any fellow who dares hint 
that we are not a little ahead of everybody else. [ Cheers.'] 

[Lucy sings Star Spangled Banner.] 

Sam. — Ladies [botes'] and gentlemen, [botvs,] fellow- 
citizens [boivs] and countrymen [bows] : This is an occa- 
sion that thrills every American heart with flaming patri- 
otism. We have met here to-day for the purpose of cele- 
brating the anniversary of one of the most thrilling events 
of history, the escape from the jaws of the British lion. 
We also meet to perpetuate the infinite, immutable doc- 
trine of universal liberty promulgated in the bewildering 
document just vocalized. 

Frank. — He's swallowed a dictionary! 

Sam. — It is fitting, on this day of days, to remember 
our fore-fathers, who planted their bare feet on the ice^ 
bound Plymouth rock, and made the howling wilderness 
blossom like a delightful rose of Sharon. 

John. — He got that out of an almanac. 

Sam. — Let us not forget our fore-fathers, who rebelled 
and took wp arms against oppressive tyranny; who fit, 
bled and died. 



178 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

Kate. — What did our fore-mothers do ? 

Sam. — Let us not forget our fore-mothers, who cooked, 
spun and cried. Fellow-citizens, I am celestially proud 
to stand under the waving American flag. 

Frank. — You 're not, you 're before it. 

Sam. " Flag of the frte, heait's only home ! 

By angel hands to valor given; 
Thy stars have li*t the welkin dome, 

And all thy hues were born in heaven," 

John. — Stolen thunder ! 

Sam. — I am proud of the American eagle, that glorious 
bird who stands with one foot on the shores of the Atlantic, 
and the other on the shores of the Pacific, with his stately 
head lost in the illimitable blue above, and who gathereth 
the people of all nationalities — French, Dutch, Irish, Afri- 
can, China, and Camanche — under his wings, as a hen 
gathereth her chickens. {Immense opplause.'] My friends, 
the United States government is a magnifi<3ent engine, 
with a train of Pullman cars. Ere long, we shall hitch 
on San Domingo, Cuba, Mexico, Central and South 
America, Canada, Labrador, and Greenland, and then 
take a grand excursion around the world. 

John. — How that eagle will have to stretch ! 

Sam. — Be patient, my verdant friends. The power of 
the American eagle is unmeasured. The principles of 
universal freedom shall become more universal. For you, 
my dear hearers, a new day is dawning. To you, ladies, 
I repeat what Ben Franklin said to Anna Dickinson, 
" Every tub must soon stand on its own bottom." 

Kate. — Ben Franklin said to Anna Dickinson ? 

Frank. — He 's crazy, away with him ! 

Sam. — Curb your noble rage, dear friends ; I am not 
mad, but a boot-black by trade, and an orator by pro- 
fession. Yes ! the grand doctrine of universal freedom 
shall go on and on, sounding from brush-heap to brush- 
heap, from pig-pen to pig-pen, from ocean to ocean ; and 
the sun, moon and stars, sailing in all their primeval glory, 
shall catch up the bewildering strain, and — and — and — 
my friends, my emotions overwhelm me ! Thanking you 
for your attention, I close. \^Uses a red handkerchief 
vigorously. Applause, explosion of torpedoes, music.'] 

Kate. — Form into procession, and march out to din- 
ner ! [All march ouf] 

[Curtain falls.} 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 179 



GOOD FOR EVIL. 



CHAEACTERS. 

Mb. Durant. 
Mrs. Durant. 

LiLLIE, ) 

Eddie, [ their Children. 
Charlie, j 
A Beggar, 
A Rich Lady. 

Scene 1. — A Parlor. Mr. and Mrs. Durant, Eddie and 
Charlie, seated. Mr. Durant sits engaged in reading. 



Mrs. Durant. — Oh! how the wind blows; how cold 
it is ! I fear winter has come in earnest now. God help 
the poor ! 

Mr. Durant. — There you are again, wife, talking about 
the poor. There is work for them in the city, if they would 
only go at it. You gave that beggar some clothes yester- 
day, didn 't you ? 

Mrs. D. — Yes, husband, I did. I pitied him so ; he 
looked so pale and wan. 

Mr. D. — I want no more such work ; if we give every 
beggar something, we would soon have a host at the door. 
They'll not get another thing at John Darant's. 

Mrs. D. — Oh, John, remember how rich we are. You 
are worth your tens of thousands, and yet refuse to give 
to God's poor. In heaven, He will make no distinction. 
There, all shall be alike, the rich and the poor. 

Mr. D. {^somewhat angry']. — Don't preach to me, Sarah. 
I know what I am about. I know I 'm rich ; but not a 
cent of my money goes to feed vagabonds. Kot a cent, 
I tell you ! 

Mrs. D. [iviping her eyes']. — John, I fear you will rue 
those words. But listen, here comes Lillie, and some one 
is with her. 

Mr. D. — One of those beggars, I guess. She must love 
them. But I will tame her. 



180 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

\_Enter Lillie, accompanied by a girl dressed in rags, 
less and honnetless.'] 

Mr. D. \_angrily]. — What did you bring that vagabond 
in here for, Lillie ? 

Lillie. — She is a poor girl, papa, without any parents. 

Mr. D. — She told you that, eh ? Well, it is the old 
tale. 

Beggar. — Kind people, I am very poor ; so poor, that 
I am forced to beg for a living. 

Mr. D. — Why don 't you work ? 

Beggar. — The folks will not hire me, I look too bad ; 
if I had better clothes, I could find work, I know. 

Mr. D. — Yes, no doubt, you could. You came here to 
tell me that story, I reckon. You'll get nothing from 
me. Lillie, take her out ! 

Mrs. D. — Oh, do not send her away so ! She needs 
clothes. 

Lillie. — Yes, mamma. She shall have my shawl, and 
warm hood. 

Charlie. — And my shoes. 

Eddie. — And the silver dollar that's in my bank. 

Beggar. — You are very kind, children. You are very 
kind. 

Mr. D. — Children, you shall give her nothing ! If she 
wants clothes and money, let her steal them, if she likes. 
She has done the like before, I dare say. Lillie, lead her 
to the door, I say ! 

Lillie. — Oh, papa, don't drivfe her away. 

Mr. D. \_rising to his feef]. — Lillie, dare you disobey 
me ? Take her away, this minute ! 

[^Exit Lillie, followed by Beggar.^ 

Mr. D. — There, wafe, is one of your poor, as you choose 
to term them. 

Mrs. D. — One of His poor, husband. How dared you 
refuse to give her something ? 

Mr. D. — Oh, easily enough. I must not tell you the 
secret of it. I go to the store, now ; but mind you, wife, 
allow no more vagabonds to ste]) over our threshold. 

lExit Mr. Duranf] 

Mrs. D. — If any come, they shall be fed. 
[ Curtain falls.'] 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 181 

Scene 2. — Mr. Durant, seated in an arm-chair, his head 
resting tqjon his hand. 

Mr. D. — Well, thus is life ! Five years ago, I was a 
millionaire, admired by a large circle of friends. But 
where am I now? Upon the brink of ruin ! Already 
men point to me, and say, " bankrupt ! " My wife, Charlie, 
and Eddie, have gone to the far-off better land, and none 
is left to me but Lillie. It almost drives me mad, when I 
think about her. If I cannot raise ten thousand dollars 
to-morrow, I will be a bankrupt, and Lillie will be a 
beggar. Where that amount is to come from, I know not ! 
Oh, Thou who feedest the ravens, take care of my Lillie; 
for before another sun shines, my body will be — . Oh, 
must this be the end of John Durant? — the death of a 
suicide? 

\_E)iter Lillie, who merrily climbs upon her father's lap, 
and raises his head.'\ 

Lillie. — What is the matter with you, papa? you 
are sad. 

Mr. D. — Sad ! Yes, darling Lillie ; to-morrow, your 
papa will be a beggar, if — 

Lillie. — If what, papa ? 

Mr. D. — If I cannot command ten thousand dollars. 

Lillie. — That is a large sum; but can't we sell our 
costly furniture ? 

Mr. D. — Alas, no, Lillie ! It is under the auctioneer's 
hammer ! We are lost, Lillie ! I hoped to leave you to 
buffet the world, with gold ; but I must leave you a beggar. 
What will become of you, then ? \_Kissing her.'] 

Lillie. — God will take care of me. I will wait till He 
comes for me. He has said, "Suffer little children to come 
unto me." 

Mr. D. — He has, Lillie. But, hush ! a carriage is 
stopping before our door. Run and see who it is ! \_Exit 
Lillie, in a hurry.'] Who can it be ? A creditor, no doubt. 
One who wants money ; but it cannot be had. Every 
person I meet is a creditor, who duns me. There is but 
one refuge from them, and that is in — 

[^Enter Lillie, hurriedly.] 

Lillie. — Oh, papa, there is such a nice lady coming 
here ! She is so nicely dressed ! Who can it be ? 



182 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

« 

Mr. D. — I know not, daughter ; but we shall soon see. 

[J. hnoch at the door. Lillie opens it. A richly-dressed 
lady enters, and seats herself.^ 

Lady [to Mr. Duranf]. — Have I the honor of address- 
ing John Durant ? 

Mr. D. — You have, madam. 

Lady. — I see, you do not recognise me, Mr. Durant. 

Mr. D. — I do not, madam ; but, I suppose, you are a 
creditor. 

Lady. — I am Mrs. Chalpin ; and thank God, John 
Durant, I am not your creditor ; but you are mine. 

Mr. D. [rising']. — What ! Mrs. Chalpin, the wife of the 
millionaire, a debtor of mine ? Impossible ! Please explain. 

Lady. — With pleasure, sir. Years ago, when you rev- 
eled in wealth, a beggar came to your house, and asked 
for food and raiment. You refused her, and even forbade 
your children to help her. You drove her from your home. 
Your Lillie followed her to the door, and placed in her 
hand a ten-dollar gold piece. With that money the little 
beggar managed to keep from starving, until a kind rich 
man took her to his house and supplied all her wants. 
She lived with her benefactor, and, not long since, was 
married, and is now wealthy. Mr. Durant, I am that 
beggar girl, whom you drove from your house. 

Mr. D. [grasping her hands']. — I have repented of that 
act. Will you forgive me ? 

Lady. — Forgive you ? Yes ; and I now wish to repay 
you ; to return good for evil. I hear that you stand on 
the verge of bankruptcy. 

Mr. D. — It is too true, madam. I am utterly unable 
to meet my liabilities. 

Lady. — What would save you ? 

Mr. D. — Ten thousand dollars. 

Lady [tahes out paper and writes]. — Here, then, is a 
check on my bank for that amount ; take it, it is yours. 
[Hands cheek to Mr. Durant.] 

Mr. D. — Oh ! you are too kind. I do not deserve this 
kindness at your hands. 

Lady. — Say not so, though you yourself do not, your 
name does. It was this little child, who saved me. [Stoops 
down and kisses Lillie.] 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 183 

LiLLiE. — Oh ! I am so glad that you saved papa. God 
has heard my prayers. 

Lady. — And answered them, Lillie. [^Then to Mr. 
Durant ;] I go now, Mr. Durant. I am happy, for I have 
repaid a great debt. Let me admonish you to remember 
the golden rule : " Do unto others, as ye would that others 
should do unto you." Good-bye. [Exit Lady.'] 

Lillie. — Oh, papa, you are saved now ! 

Mr. D. — Yes, I am saved, Lillie. For your sake, God 
has saved me ! and ever, henceforth, my motto will be, 
" Remember the poor." 

[^Curiam falls.'] 



LITTLE PIECES FOR LITTLE FOLKS, 



NOT SO EASY. 



Now you may think it very nice, 

And very easy, too, 
For a little boy to stand up here, 

With little else to do. 
But make his bow, and say a piece — 

To speak up loud and plain, — 
Then make another bow to close, 

And take his seat again. 

But I can tell you, one and all. 

Which ever way you view it, — 
To face this crowd of gentle folks, 

It takes some pluck to do it. 
The saying is as true as old, 

'' Who gets a name must buy it ; " 
If you don't credit what I say, 

Just walk up here and try it ! 



WHAT I LIKE. 
[for two little boys.] 



Geobge. — 

All the seasons I like, as they pass along, 
But winter I love the best. 
For it brings a joy, 
To the glad school boy, 
More pleasing than all the rest. 
184 



STAND AED DIALOGUES 185 

I like to ride o'er the fleecy snow, 
When the air is crisp and clear ; 

For the jingle, jingle, jing, 

Of the sleiffh-bells' rino^, 
Sounds sweet to my own little ear. 

Then I like to skate on the ice so smooth, — 
Ah, me ! how swiftly I go ; 

All the boys must look out. 

When I am about, 
Or beat them I surely will do. 

But my hand sleigh I must not forget, 
For my Monitor carries the day ; 
Then tell me each one, 
Since my piece is nigh done, 
If this isnH the season for frolic and play ? 

CeiRLES. — 

/ love the winter, too, and hail 

Its coming with rare joy ; 
I love my skates and sled, as well 

As any other boy. 

Like George, I like to find myself 
In the robes so snug and nice, 

Behind a fleet, black, pon}^ team, 
Gliding o'er snow and ice. 

Ah, yes I for winter and its joys, 

A word I'll ever speak. 
For it makes me strong and vigorous, 

And gives color to my cheek. 

I love its cold and bracing air, 

I love the fleecy snow. 
And just for fun and exercise, 

A snow ball like to throw. 

But there are other things I love, 

Which must not be forgot, 
More to be prized than skates or sled. 

Or a two-forty trot. 

I mean my pleasant, happy school, 

My books and studies too, — 
This cheerful room — these teachers kind, 

To whom my love is due. 



186 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

My sports and plays are only means 
To nerve me for my work ; 

In the first I'll heartily engage, 
While the last I'll never shirk. 



FRED'S FIRST SPEECH. 
You've heard the fable, "Mouse and Pussy," 

And know it all by heart, no doubt — 
How Mouse's pains gave Pussy pleasure, 

As she tossed the little thing about ; 
And how Mouse said to cruel Pussy, 

With quivering lip and panting breath, 
" Though this, to you, may seem quite funny, 

To me 'tis only certain death." 
Now we're not mice, nor you tormentors ; 

Yet the fable, here, its moral brings ; 
For though these scenes to you give pleasure, 

They're aught huXi fun to us, poor things I 
For if you deem it very easy 

For such as we to mount this place, 
And do the duties here assigned us, 

And meet these people face to face. 
Then let me tell you, you're mistaken ; 

And if you doubt my word, my friends, 
Just walk up here by me and try it. 

And you'll see how the matter ends. 
If you don't feel the color rising, 

And your strong voice begin to shake, 
And a misty cloud come o'er your vision, 

Why WiQn—^you may the premium take. 



I WANT TO BE A SOLDIER. 

A PARODY. 

I want to be a soldier, 

And with the soldiers stand, 
A knapsack on my shoulder, 

A musket in my hand ; 
And with my bayonet gleaming, 

So glorious and so bright, 
I'd join the gallant army. 

And for my country fight. 



STANDAKB DIALOGUES 187 

Though I should oft be wounded, 

I would not shed a tear ; 
Though in the midst of danger, 

I ne'er would feel a fear : 
But brave s.nd patriotic, 

Like our bru,ver sires I'd fight, 
And with ten thousand soldiers 

Put rebels all to flight. 

Then let me be a soldier. 

And with the soldiers stand, 
A knapsack on my shoulder, 

A musket in my hand ; 
And with my bayonet gleaming, 

So glorious and so bright, 
I'd join the gallant army, 

And for my country fight. 

I know I'm young and tender, 

But, mother, dry your tears. 
For many young as I am 

Have joined the volunteers; 
And mother, should I perish, 

And for m}^ country die, — 
I'd think of you and sister, 

And meet you in the sky. 



BLUE. 

As I was going up the street one day, 

I passed a wagon new, — 
I put my hand upon its side. 

And it was painted blue. 

I saw a maiden bright and fair, 
(For she was passing, too,) 

I put my hand upon her cheek, 
And it was painted blue. 

Her cheeks changed color very soon- 
Were variegated, too, — 

For while one side of them was red 
The other side was blue. 



188 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

Her anger very soon arose, 
Which very soon I knew; 

And all because her rosy cheek 
Had just been painted blue. 

And now she will not me forgive ; 

Dear me ! what shall I do ? 
And all the wrong that I have done, 

Her cheek I painted blue. 

Well, well ! it can not now be helped- 

I can not it undo ; 
But then I will not after this 

Young maiden's cheeks paint blue. 



WALTER'S FIRST SPEECH. 

While other boys have had their say 

Upon this platform here, 
Have stood up firm before you all, 

Without a blush or fear, 
/ come with trembling heart and lips 

To make my little bow, 
And make m}^ first attempt to speak 

Before an audience now. 

And should 1 falter in my speech, 

You'll pardon me, I know, 
Since greater folks have done the same. 

Who could not make their speeches go. 
But if I do the best I can 

Here to fulfill my task, 
The best could not do more, you know> 

And 'tis all that y«u can ask. 

These boys have talked and sung to-day, 

Of our country and its cause ; 
I, too, must testify my love 

For her before I pause. 
I'm a Union hoy from head to foot, 

This fact just bear in mind ; 
True to my country and its flag, 

No copper here"^ you'll find 1 

* Pointing to his head. 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 189 



EXAMINATION-DAY. 

Examination-day I How many little hearts 
Within these walls, have shuddered at that word. 
And do you wonder much, that timid boys, 
And modest misses, such as these you see. 
Should shrink from being marshaled out 
Before this gazing crowd, to sing, declaim, 
And answer all the questions, plain and right, 
The teachers choose to ask, though it require 
To ransack through their Jcnowledge-box, from top 
To bottom, ere they find the answers clear, 
And all these people looking on, to see 
If we should chance to fail ? 

I wonder what these wise committee-men 
Would think, if they were yearly marshaled out, 
And made to stand up here, like us, and tell 
This audience all they knew about the world, 
Its countries and their products, — all they knew 
About the people, and their modes of life. 
And then to tell us about this "house we live in," 
Its bones and muscles, v«ins, and brains, and nerves. 
(I guess they'd find they had the nerves.) ' 

And then to think of all these puzzling sums 

In Stoddard, to say nothing of the work 

Of Thompson's written ones. How would they like 

To stand up here, with chalk in hand, and add, 

Subtract, divide, and multiply in fractions. 

Simple, compound, proper, and improper ? 

(By the way, / think they're all improper.) 

And then I'd like to know how you would feel, 
To stand up in this place and bear your part 
In dialogue, or declamation, while 
Every eye and ear was watching you — 
Was watching every word and motion. 
And you, poor soul, a-trembling in your shoes. 
I think you'd say, as did the mouse of old. 
To pussy cat, " This may be fun to you, 
But it is death to me." * * * 

Say, then, do you not pity us ? I know 
The ladies do. I see it in their eyes : 
Our wise committee, too, look kindly on us. 
And from our very hearts we thank you all. 
24 



190 STANDARD DIALOGUES 



CLOSE OF SCHOOL. 



Kind Friends — Within oar school-room walls we gladly see 

you meeting, 
And haste to bid you welcome ; pray receive our heartfelt 

greeting. 
You've come to listen to our songs, orations and discourses. 
Pray look not for broad rivers, friends, so near their tiny sources. 
We'll gladly do our best for you, and kindly you'll remember. 
The April of our lives can't yield the rich fruits of September; 
But if our offering you'll accept — the early leaves of Spring — 
We'll make no more apologies, but will read, converse and sing. 
We schoolboys, honored friends, are like a hive of busy bees, 
As they their waxen cells do store, so we store our memories. 
As they enjoy the bright sunshine, and oft wing their way aloft, 
So love we well the summer shine, and we wish for wings full 

oft? 
They sip the honey from the flowers .; we have what's no less 

sweet, 
For candy of molasses made doth yield us many a treat ! 
Troubles they have, and so, friends, we have some troubles of 

our own ; 
Some big ones have they that wont work, — we are not without 

a drone. 
Yet differ we in some respects, for we must obey our rule ; 
They buzz at work ; 'tis very hard I but we may not buzz in 

school. 
They have a queen, and hard they work to win her approba- 
tion ; 
We have no queen, but teachers kind, and love their commen* 

dation. 
And happy are the hours, dear friends, which we spend within 

these walls, 
Attentive to Instruction's voice, obedient to her calls. 
And to our God we raise our hearts in most loving, grateful 

praise. 
That in this land of Public Schools we may spend our youth 

ful days. 
Where knowledge free as sunshine is, and as plentiful as dew, 
And learning's precious stores wide-spread, like flowers of va- 
ried hue ! 
And not for us alone the good of public education, 
For gills and boys the blessing will endure while we're a nation. 



STAND A ED DIALOGUES 191 

EXHIBITION DAY. 

Youth and childhood are the seasons, 

We are told, for mirth and joy, 
Sighs and cares were not intended 

For a lassie or a boy. 
But if not, we see not wherefore 

Were invented days like these, 
When each boy and girl's expected 

To astonish and to please 
Such a crowd of goodl}^ persons 

As before us now appear — 
Such a crowd as ever greet us, 

In this place from year to year. 

Now, we ask you — here we ask you. 

Think you that this costs us naught? 
If so, you are quite mistaken. 

Days like these are dearly bought; 
Bought with anxious fear and trembling, 

With some thought and study, too ; 
For it takes not much, to puzzle 

Smaller brains, whate'er they do. 
Tho' we are not wise or learned, 

Let me tell }■ ou, every one 
Who to-day appears before you. 

Thinks this any thing hut fun. 
Now and here again we ask you. 

Would 3'ou, could you, stand up here— 
Take our place and face these people, 

Without trembling, care, or fear ? 
If not, then you will not blame us. 

Or expect too much to-day. 
But look kindly on our errors. 

And with smiles cheer on our way 



CHARLIE'S SPEECH. 

Brother Will has said his piece, 

I'll try my little hand, 
Although I own it's pretty hard 

Before so many folks to stand. 



192 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

Little folks should not be heard, 
Only seen, some people say, 

So I will end my little speech, 

Since you have all seen me to-day. 

THE FOUR -YEAR -OLD. 

If 3'ou expect great things of me, 

I fear you'll be mistaken. 
Though it is something great, I own. 

Which I have undertaken. 
To let my little voice be heard 

In such a place as this, 
And all these people here to see 

How wondrous hard it is. 
But I will brave it like a man 

In hopes some day to stand 
In a larger place than this, 

Within our noble land, 
And let my voice be heard once more, 
In stirrinof tones, the nation o'er. 



WILLIE'S SPEECH. 
X am sure you can't expect great things 

From one so young as I, 
And yet, to do my very best, 

I here, and now, will try. 
The greatest men who ever lived, 

Were once but little boys ; 
They had their sports as well as we, 

And played with tops and toys. 
They had to learn first lessons, too — 

To read, and write, and spell ; 
To speak their lessons on the stage, 

And try to do them well. 
I doubt if Everett or Webster, 

Or even Henry Clay, 
Didn't tremble in his shoes, when first 

He tried his piece to saj^ 
So you must not expect too much 

Nor criticise us here, 
While we appear before you all 

With trembling and with fear. 



STANDARD DIALOGUES 193 

AN ADDRESS OF WELCOME. 

They say, sometimes, that walls have ears. I don't 
know how that is ; but I do know that if these old walls 
have ears, they will hear some wonderful things to-night ; 
and if they have eyes, will see a sight worth beholding ; 
and if they had a tongue, it would find utterance in a 
shout — a long, loud, triumjjhant shout of iveleome. 

Welcome, loved parents ; welcome, kind friends ; wel- 
come, dear schoolmates ; welcome, one and all, to the 

anniversary of the , this glorious day of , 18 ! 

{Fill blanks to suit.) 

But alas! the walls are dumb ; and I am afraid that if 
they have any hearts, they are as cold and hard as the 
materials of which they are built. But no matter; for 
within them are gathered human beings, whose hearts 
beat warmly, and tenderly, and lovingly, this night of all 
nights; and the one cord to which each thrills is — Wel- 
come ! 

As all could not give this feeling utterance, they have 
appointed me to express it; to embody in the one voice 
the united cry of ivelcome. 

Dear friends, let me beg you not to measure this wel- 
come by my size ; my love can be great, though my inches 
are few ; if my body don't take up much room, my heart 
is large enough to contain you all. 

il/^ heart! I beg pardon. Oi/r heart! for our pastor 
bids you welcome to this gathering of the lambs of his 
flock. Even now, the words of the Master ring in his 
ears, "Whoso shall receive one such little child in my 
name, receiveth me." 3fe! Blessed Jesus, may each one 
here to-night indeed receive into his heart the children's 
Saviour. (To be said with clasped hands and closed eyes, 
taking care that it is indeed a prayer from the heart.) 

Our superintendent greets and welcomes you ; and in 
the name of Him who has said, " Suflfer the little children 
to come unto me," thanks you for all your kindness — past, 
present, and yet to come. 

Our teachers take up the cry, and fain would shout it 
out, that all the earth might hear — welcome! welcome at 
all times ! but thrice welcome on this, our anniversary 
night ! 



194 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

My dear brothers and sisters of the school will tell you 
that — 

" Many are the sorrows, many are the tears, 
Many are the hopes, and many are the fears, 
That have crossed our pathway since we last did meet : 
But we are come again, our kindred and our friends to greet," 

And welcome you, my dear friends, this festal night. 
Even my cherished schoolmates, the little "larabs of the 
flock," echo the shout, and cry — come, come, come! 
(First come ivith almost a shout, arid decreasing to a low hut 
perfectly distinct tone?) 

But hark ! What is that ? I thought I heard another, 
afar off, and yet near, echo of come, come, come! (Com- 
mence in a loud whisper, and gradually increase the voice.) 

Ah ! yes. Jesus himself, the children's friend, is in our 
midst to-night, and bids you welcome ; but calls to each, 
" Come unto me," for " verily I say unto you, except ye be 
converted, and become as little children, ye shall not 
enter into the kingdom of heaven." 

Dear, kind friends — old and young, rich and poor, 
learned and unlearned — let us obey this call, for he loves 
us all ; then at the last, great anniversary meeting, on the 
other shore — 

" The angels will stand, on the heavenly strand, 
And sing their welcome home." 



OLD EYE MAKES A SPEECH. 

I was made to be eaten. 
And not to be drank ; 

To be thrashed in a barn. 
Not soaked in a tank. 

I come as a blessing 

When put through a mill; 

As a blight and a curse 
When run through a still. 

Make me up into loaves, 
And your children are fed ; 

But, if into a drink, 

I will starve them instead. 



STANDAKD DIALOGUES 195 

Id bread, I'm a servant, 

The eater shall rule ; 
In drink, I am master, 

The drinker a fool. 

Then remember the warning, 

My strength I'll employ — 
If eaten, to strengthen ; 

If drunk, to destroy. 



FOR A TINY GIRL. 



A tiny girl, from a tiny class, 

I have only a tiny speech to make ; 
But my dear teacher and kind schoolmates 

Bid me welcome you here, for love's sweet sake. 

Our tiny hearts with joy are filled. 

As we look at our pleasant room to-day, 

And our tiny lips thank our Father in heaven 

For every blessing he throws in our way. 

These tiny offerings of flowers we've brought, 

And as their fragrance fills the air. 
May they bring you a message from tiny hearts, 

That we thank you truly for all your care. 

We trust you have been pleased to-day 
With each and every thing we've done, 

And hope our friends will not regret 
They to our pleasant school have come. 



FIRST SPEECH IN PUBLIC. 

I never made a speech before, 
And cannot say I shall make more ; 
But if you'll let me look at you. 
And say to all, " How do you do ? " 
I'm sure I'll let you look at me — 
It won't take long, I am so " wee." 
But then I won't be always small ; 
And now I'll throw a kiss to all ! 
And if I live I'll speak next year 
With stronger voice, and have no fear. 



196 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

INTRODUCTORY ADDRESS. 

Ladies and Gents : We give to you 
A warm aod kindly greeting, 

And hope you will be fully paid 
For the labor of this meeting. 

We don't expect to do great things, 
But then we'll try to please you ; 

Our object is not to instruct, 
But only to amuse you. 

For life is full enough of what 

Is tangible and real ; 
And sometimes greater good is got 

In what is but ideal. 

Be pleased to pass our blunders by, 
And only note successes. 

And if you cannot give applause. 
Pray do not give us hisses. 



VERY LITTLE ONES ARE WE. 

Very little ones are we, 

But we've learned our ABC. 

We can read, and we can spell, 
And obey our teacher well. 

When we old and wiser grow, 

Much we'll learn, and much w^e'll know. 

Please excuse us, friends, to-day, 
-For we have not much to say. 



LINES FOR AN EXHIBITION. 

Kind friends, and dear parents, we welcome you here, 
To our nice, pleasant school-room, and teachers so dear, 
We wish but to show you how much we have learned. 
And how to our lessons our hearts ha^'-e been turned. 

But we hope you'll remember we all are quite young. 
And when we have spoken, recited, and sung, 
You will pardon our blunders, which, as all are aware, 
May even ex:tend to the President's chair. 



STANDAED DIALOGUES 197 

We seek your approval with hearty good-will, 
And hope the good lessons our teachers instil 
May make us submissive, and gentle, and kind, 
As well as enlighten and strengthen the mind. 

For learning, we know, is more precious than gold ; 
But the worth of the heart's jewels ne'er can be told ; 
We'll strive, then, for virtue, truth, honor, and love. 
And thus lay up treasures in mansions above. 

Our life is a school-time ; and till that shall end, 
AVith our Father in heaven for teacher and friend, 
O let us perform well each task that is given. 
Till our time of probation is ended in heaven. 



WHEN I AM A MAN. 



When I am a man — and I'm going to be one some 
time — there are several things I mean to find out. One 
is, why men make themselves sick learning to chew dirty 
stuiF that even the pigs will not eat. It makes their 
breath smell bad ; it makes their teeth grow black ; it makes 
their faces yellow, and it makes every clean person want to 
get away from them. I wonder why they do it. Another 
thing is, why boys begin drinking wine, and cider, and 
ale, and beer, and keep on taking something a little 
stronger, till they get to be drunkards. My father says 
nobody means to be a drunkard at first, but when they 
begin they cannot well stop. I think the safest way is not 
to begin. I am a temperance boy — a teetotal temperance 
boy — and I mean to be a teetotal temperance man. Then I 
shall know a great deal more than I do now, and I'll 
make you another speech. 



MODEKN CHIVALRY. 

[for a little boy dressed up as a soldier.] 

My friends, I'm glad to see you all, 
You're welcome to this stately hall. 
You needn't be afraid of me, 
Altho' I look so bold and free ; 
I once was very thin and small, 
Tho' now, you see, I'm rather tall 



198 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

I'm growing very fast, they say ; 

I grew an inch since yesterday. 

I think I'm nearly five feet high, 

Tho' you can judge as well as I. 

My bosom swells with generous fire ; 

I feel as big as old Goliah. 

I'll have a fortress on a hill ; 

I'll be a hero — so I will; 

I'll meet the foemen of the land. 

And battle with them, hand to hand ; 

Break down their towers, and drive them out, 

And dare and scare them all about. 

I'll rout them all with horrid slaughter, 

And drive them down into the water ; 

Jump in a brig, and follow o'er 

The ocean, to the other shore; 

And o'er the continent I'll chase 'em, 

And from the nations' map erase 'em. 

I'll see nobody treated ill ; 

I'll punish all the rogues, I will. 

The rulers must be just and true. 

Or else with 7ne they'll have to do. 

I'll jump astride a comet's tail. 

All eyes shall wink and hearts shall quail, 

And everybody's face turn pale. 

As through the midnight air I sail ; 

And then, as silent as a mouse. 

We'll glide down to the old Courthouse ; 

And in the sight of all the people, 

We'll set fire to the very steeple. 

Then swiftly, swiftly, up the sky. 

We are gone again, comet and I. 

You never saw a comet, boys : 

It makes an awful whizzing noise. 

You'll find you have some cause to fear it, 

If ever you should venture near it. 

Ladies, don't let me frighten you ; 

The last thing I could wish to do. 

You have no cause to be afraid, 

Tho' fighting seems to be my trade. 

I am as gentle as a dove. 

When once I look on those I love. 



STAND AED DIALOGUES 199 

Here is my heart that beats for you, 
And here my sword, so strong and true. 
Now, in the light of this blue sky, 
I pledge you till my parting sigh 
Your lives and honor to defend, 
Your humble and devoted friend. 



A LITTLE BOY'S SPEECH. 

I've stayed here watching all the folks. 
And heard the big boys crack their jokes, 
And seen you laugh, and heard you cheer, 
I didn't want to interfere ; 
But I did wish they would get through. 
And let me do my talking too. 

I hope you have had a jolly time ; 
It takes ten cents to make a dime ; 
Birds in their little nests agree. 
And sugar candy does with me ; 
Grandmother says it makes me sick, 
But I get better very quick. 

I hope you like all you have heard ; 
I didn't hark to every word, 
For I was thinking all the time 
How I should say my little rhyme ; 
I've done it now, and feel all right ; 
I hope you do so too. Good-night ! 

DECLAMATION. 
[by a little tot.] 

They thought I couldn't make a speech, 

I'm such a little tot. 
I'll show them whether I can do 

A thing or two, or not. 

Don't be afraid to fight the wrong. 
Or stand up for the right — 

And when you've nothing else to say, 
Be sure you say — " Good-night." 



200 STANDARD DIALOGUES 

GKANDMA'S ADVICE TO THE GIRLS. 

[by A LITTLE GIRL IN COSTUME.] 

If I were in your places, girls, 

I'll tell you what I'd do : 
I'd gently lecture, now and then, 

The boys that smoke and chew. 

I'd tell them that it seems to me 

A crying sin and shame ; 
I wonder what they'd think to see 

Their sisters do the same. 

I'd point them to the vile effects 

Resulting from its use — 
Discolored teeth and poisoned breath, 

And lips besmeared with juice. 

I'd talk to Harry like a friend. 

To Will and Charlie, too, 
And tell them frankly how it looks 

To see them smoke and chew. 

If you would learn to think of boys 
As friends, instead of beaux. 

And act yourselves the part of friends, 
I'm sure nobody knows 

What good you might accomplish thus, 

For wise and gentle words 
Will nestle in the hearers' hearts 

Like softly-singing birds. 

Just do your duty bravely, girls; 

Begin this very night. 
And seek, in loving ways, to win 

Your brothers to the right. 



THE SPOILED FACE. 



Did you ever see little John Peter ? He had as pretty 
a face as ever you need to see, but he spoiled it. Shall 
I tell you how he spoiled it? When his mother said, 
" Now, my boy, come in and get ready for school," little 
John Peter began to whine and say (makes his face out 
of shape and whines out), "I don't want to go to school." 



STANDARD DIALOGUES ^01 

When his mother wouldn't let him have any more 
sweet cake, he said {rubs one eye ivith the back of his hand 
and whines out), " Boo-hoo ; I want some more s^^eet 
cake." 

So, by-and-by, little John Peter spoiled his pretty face, 
and it grew all twisted up crooked, just like this [draws 
down his mouth and looks very cross and ugly). 



NAMING THE BABY. 



You have birds in a cage, and you've beautiful flowers, 

But you haven't at your house what we have at ours ; 

'Tis the prettiest thing that you ever did see. 

Just as dear and as precious as precious can be, 

'Tis my own baby sister, just seven days old. 

And too little for any but grown folks to hold. 

Oh ! I know you would love her ; she's as fresh as a rose. 

And she has such a queer, tiny bit of a nose. 

And the dearest and loveliest pink little toes. 

Which, I tell mother, seem only made to be kissed ; 

And she keeps her wee hand doubled up in a fist. 

She is quite without hair, but she's beautiful eyes, 

She always looks pretty except when she cries. 

And what name we shall give her there's no one can tell, 

For my father says Sarah ; and mother likes Belle; 

And my great-uncle John — he's an old-fashioned man — 

Wants her named for his wife that is dead, Mary Ann. 

But the name / have chosen the darling to call 

Is a name that is prettier far than them all; 

And to give it to baby my heart is quite set — 

It is Violet Martha Rose Stella Marzette. 



JOHNNY'S OPINION OF GRANDMOTHERS. 

.Grandmothers are very nice folks ; 

They beat all the aunts in creation ; 
They let a chap do as he likes. 

And don't worry about education. 
I'm sure I can't see it at all 

What a poor fellow ever could do 
For apples, and pennies, and cakes, 

Without a grandmother or two. 



202 STAKBARB DIALOGUES 

Grandmothers speak softly to " ma " 

To let a boy have a good time ; 
Sometimes they will whisper, 'tis true, 

T'other way when a boy wants to climb. 
Grandmothers have muffins for tea, 

And pies, a whole row in the cellar, 
And they're apt (if they know it in time) 

To make chicken pies for a " feller." 

And if he is bad now and then. 

And makes a great racketing noise, 
They only look over their specs 

And say, "Ah, these boys will be boys! 
Life is only so short, at the best; 

Let the children be happy to-day." 
Then they look for awhile at the sky, 

And the hills that are far, far away. 

Quite often, as twilight comes on, 

Grandmothers sing hymns very low 
To themselves, as they rock by the fire, 

About heaven, and when they shall go ; 
And then, a boy, stopping to think. 

Will find a hot tear in his eye 
To know what will come at the last — 

For grandmothers all have to die ! 

I wish they could stay here and pray, 

For a boy needs their prayers every night; 

Some boys more than others, I s'pose — 
Such as I — ^need a terrible sight ! 



Qood=Humor 



FOR 



Reading and Recitation 



^jIjOMOR 



^PennPublishrngmW 



By Henry Firth Wood 
Humorist and Reciter 
Paper Binding, 30 Cents 

Cloth, 50 Cents 
The title of this volume accurately 
and faithfully describes the character 
of its contents. It is believed to be 
"good humor," and the rendition of 
the selections is calculated to put the 
audience in an equally " good-humor." 

Mr. Wood, one of the most popular humorists of the 
day, presents in this volume one of the very best collec- 
tions of humorous recitations ever offered to the public. 
Many of the pieces make their first appearance in this 
book, several among the number being original creations 
of the compiler. Considerable space has been devoted 
to the popular dialect fancies of the day, which are so 
much in demand at the present time. While all of the 
selections are exceedingly laughable, special pains have 
been taken to prevent overstepping the bounds of pro- 
priety, and there is, therefore, nothing that cannot be 
appropriately given before the most cultured and refined 
audiences. 

No reader, who wishes to keep abreast of the times, 
can afford to be without this volume, as its selections are 
indispensable to his repertoire. 

Sold by all booksellers, or sent, prepaid, upon receipt 
of price. 

The Penn Publishing Company 

923 Arch Street, Philadelphia 



Choice Humor 



= "^^^Hlij'vSs 



FOR READING AND RECITA- 
TION 
By Charles C. Shoemaker 



f^^H 



Paper Binding, 30 Cents 
I HH^^^^H Cloth, 50 Cents 

i ^^^^^^H -^s its name implies, the selections 
are chosen with the greatest care, 
avoiding the coarse and vulgar on the 
one hand, and the flat and insipid on 
the other. 

The compiler has had unequaled facilities for securing 
the best readings of every character, and the present 
volume may be considered without a rival. The pieces 
are new, but few of them having previously appeared in 
any similar publication, and the range of subjects is un- 
usually wide. 

The repertoires of many of the best amateur and 
professional readers have been examined and the 
choicest bits of humor have been carefully culled 
and bound up in this rich, golden sheaf, and are 
here offered to the public for the first time in book 
form. 

This book was prepared to meet a widespread demand, 
it became popular immediately upon its publication, and 
its continuous and increasing sale ever since has been 
almost phenomenal. No public reader or reciter can 
afford to be without it, as it contains some of the best 
selections in print. 

Sold by all booksellers, or sent, prepaid, upon receipt 
ofcrice. 

The Penn Publishing Company 

923 Arch Street, Philadelphia 



Choice Dialect 




FOR READING AND RECITA- 
TION 
By Charles C. Shoemaker 
Paper Binding, 30 Cents 
Cloth, 50 Cents 
This popular and attractive volume 
contains a rare collection of Choice 
Dialect of every variety, covering a 
broad range of sentiment, and suited 
to any public or private occasion where readings or 
recitations are the order of entertainment. The transi- 
tions from grave to gay, from humorous to pathetic, and 
from the simply descriptive to the highly dramatic, will 
be found unusually wide. 

Many of the selections have never before appeared in 
print, and a number of others have been specially ar- 
ranged for this volume. It is believed that the book will 
meet the wants of those who are partial to selections in 
dialect, but whose good taste and good sense are often 
shocked by the coarseness that too frequently prevails in 
books of this character. 

Among its contents will be found selections in all dia- 
lects, such as Irish, Scotch, German, Negro, etc., and 
representing all phases of sentiment, the humorous, pa- 
thetic, dramatic, etc., thus affording full scope to the varied 
attainments of the reader or reciter, and adapting it emi- 
nently to the needs of the amateur and professional elocu- 
tionist. 

Sold by all booksellers, or sent, prepaid, upon receipt 
of price. 

The Penn Publishing Company 

923 Arch Street, Philadelphia 




Choice Dialogues 

FOR 

SCHOOL AND SOCIAL ENTER- 

^ ^^^^m\ TAINMENT 

I ^^^^J By Mrs. J. W. Shoemaker 

Entirely New and Original 
Paper Binding, 30 Cents 
Cloth, 50 Cents 

The topics have been arranged on a 
comprehensive plan, with reference to securing the 
greatest possible variety; and the matter has been pre- 
pared especially by a corps of able writers. Each pro- 
duction has been critically examined as to its moral tone, 
its literary structure and expression, and its adaptation 
to the purpose intended. 

Loftiness of conception, purity of tone, elevated moral 
sentiment, and perfect adaptabihty are some of the many 
good points to be found in this volume, which shows on 
every page indisputable evidence of thorough and care- 
ful preparation. 

This is probably the best all-round dialogue book 
ever published, being adapted as it is to the Sunday- 
school or day-school, to public and private entertain- 
ments, and to young people or adults. It gained 
popular favor as soon as issued, and the demand ever 
since has been very great. Any person in need of a 
book of this kind will be sure to be satisfied with this 
volume. 

Sold by all booksellers, or sent, prepaid, upon receipt 
of price. 



The Penn Publishing Company 

923 Arch Street, Philadelphia 




Humorous Dialogues 

and Dramas 

By Charles C, Shoemaker 

Paper Binding, 30 Cents 

Cloth, 50 Cents 

After the severe labors of the day 
every one enjoys that which will af- 
ford relaxation and relieve the mind 
of its nervous tension. For this rea- 
son the humorous reading is so 
hfeartily received and the humorous dialogue so vigor- 
ously applauded. . Humor has its legitimate field, but it 
.s always attended with one great danger, that of de- 
scending to the coarse and vulgar. And just at this point 
lies the merit of this book. The dialogues are humorous 
without being coarse, and funny without being vulgar. 
Many of them are selected from standard authors, but a 
number of others have been specially prepared for the 
book by experienced writers. 

All the dialogues are bright and taking and sure to 
prove most successful in their presentation. They 
can be given on any ordinary stage or platform, and 
require nothing out of the ordinary in the way of 
costuming. They are adapted to old and young of 
both sexes, and are suitable to all occasions where 
good, wholesome humor is appropriate and will be 
appreciated. ^ 

Sold by all booksellers, or sent, prepaid, upon receipt 
of price. 

The Penn Publishing Company 

T 933 Arch Street, Philadelphia 




Classic Dialogues 

and Dramas 

By Mrs. J. W. Shoemaker 
Paper Binding, 30 Cents 
Cloth, 50 Cents 
This book embraces scenes and 
dialogues selected with the greatest 
care from the writings of the best 
dramatists. It is, therefore, valuable 
not alone for public and private en- 
tertainments, but to individuals for 
the opportunity it affords for literary study. It is rarely, 
if at all, that such a collection of articles from the truly 
great writers is found in one volume. 

As would be expected a number of the strongest and 
most familiar scenes from the plays of Shakespeare have 
been inserted, but selections from Sheridan, Bulwer, 
Schiller, and others equally prominent have also been 
made. Many of the dialogues are such as would prove 
acceptable in the form of readings or recitals, and for 
this reason the value of the book to many persons is 
greatly increased. 

It is a volume that appeals most forcibly to the 
teacher and advanced student, and its contents will 
find acceptance most readily with audiences of the 
highest culture and refinement. With such environ- 
ment the dialogues will prove very acceptable and en- 
joyable. ^ 

Sold by all booksellers, or sent, prepaid, upon receipt 
of price. 

The Penn Publishing Company 

923 Arch Street, Philadelphia 



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